


our new normal (I like this one better)

by bellarkekru



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, mentions of bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:26:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellarkekru/pseuds/bellarkekru
Summary: The most traumatic day of Clarke’s life is one she cannot remember. All she knows is that she was with her father one second and waking up in the hospital in extreme pain the next. It plagues her till this day.After the death of his parents in a house fire, Bellamy and his sister Octavia were put into the system at a young age but when Bellamy hit his foster father trying to defend another, he quickly lost the privilege of ever being able to see his sister.Pain is something they both know well. Can they get back to normal? Or maybe there is no such thing as normal for people like them.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 24
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi it's me again. I'm the CEO of starting new stories while still having incomplete ones but hopefully after this one I'll get my inspiration back for them!

“My mother is a control freak, I hate my stepfather, the closest thing I had to a brother is dead and my father has… well … issues. How do you think I’m doing?”

That’s how Clarke would have loved to respond to Ms. Diyoza’s question, but alas her mother placed too much importance on appearance for her to answer honestly. Instead, Clarke blinked three times and replied, “Fine.”

Ms. Diyoza, Arkadia High’s new clinical social worker, acted as if Clarke hadn’t spoken. She shoved a stack of files to the side of her already cluttered desk and flipped through various papers. Clarke’s new therapist hummed when she found her three-inch-thick file and rewarded herself with a sip of coffee, leaving bright red lipstick on the curve of the mug. The stench of cheap coffee and freshly sharpened pencils hung in the air.

Clarke’s mother, Abby, sat to her right, checking her watch every few seconds without fail, obviously not happy to be here. Although it didn’t faze Clarke that her mother didn’t seem to have time for her, it still sent a pang to her heart. On her left, the Wicked Warlock of the West shifted impatiently. Clarke was missing first period calculus, her mother was missing some (apparently) very important meeting, and her stepfather from Oz? Clarke was sure he was missing his brain. A conclusion Clarke had come to very early on after Marcus Kane had turned her life upside down.  
  
“Don’t you just love January?” Ms Diyoza asked as she opened Clarke’s file. “New year, new month, new slate to start over on.” Not even waiting for a reply, she continued, “Do you like the curtains? I made them myself.”  
  
In one synchronised movement, Abby, Marcus and Clarke all turned their attention to the pink polka-dotted curtains hanging on the windows overlooking the student parking lot. The curtains were too Little House on the Prairie with the colour scheme of a bad rave for Clarke's taste. Not a single one of them answered and their silence created a heavy awkwardness.  
  
Luckily, her mother’s phone vibrated ending the uncomfortable sicken. With exaggerated effort, Abby pulled it out of her pocket and scrolled down the screen. All the while Marcus drummed his fingers against his chair, which by the way was really starting to piss Clarke off as she read the various hand-painted plaques hanging on the wall just so she could focus on anything that wasn’t him.  
  
_Failure is your only enemy. The only way up is to never look down. We succeed because we believe. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?_  
  
Okay—so that last one didn’t make the wall of sayings, but Clarke certainly would have found it amusing.  
  
Ms Diyoza reminded Clarke of an overgrown Labrador retriever with her blonde hair and much too friendly attitude. “Clarke’s ACT and SAT scores are fabulous. You should be very proud of your daughter.” She gave Clarke a sincere smile, exposing all of her teeth.  
  
Start the timer. Her therapy session had officially begun. Close to two years ago, after the incident, Child Protective Services had “strongly encouraged” therapy—and her mother quickly learned that it was better to say yes to anything “strongly encouraged.” Clarke used to go to therapy like normal people, at an office separate from school. Thanks to an influx in funding from the state of Kentucky and an overenthusiastic social worker, she’d become part of this pilot program. Ms Diyoza’s sole job was to deal with a few kids from my high school. _Lucky me._  
  
Her mother sat up taller in her seat at Ms Diyoza’s words as if ready to reprimand her for being so silly. In a way she was. “Her maths scores were low. I want her to retake the tests.”  
  
“Is there a bathroom nearby?” Marcus interrupted much to the annoyance of Clarke. “I’d love to stay and listen but duty calls.”   
  
More like Marcus just loved to make everything about him. Ms Diyoza gave him a strained smile and pointed to the door. “Go out to the main hallway and take a right.”  
  
The way he manoeuvred out the room, acting as if though the world revolved around him angered Clarke. She shook her head in disgust, which only drew her mother’s cold icy glare.  
  
“Miss Griffin,” Ms Diyoza continued once Marcus had left the room-

“Miss Walters.” Abby inserted, causing Clarke’s blood to boil in anger. The memory of her father only lived on through her and even then her mother had strong opinions against it.

“Right. Miss Walters." Ms Diyoza corrected herself. "Clarke's scores are well above the national average and, according to her file, she’s already applied to the colleges of her choice.”  
  
“There are some medical schools with extended deadlines I’d like her to apply to. Besides, this family does not accept ‘above average.’ My daughter will excel.” Abby spoke with the air of a deity. She might as well have added the phrase so let it be written, so let it be done. Clarke propped her elbow on the armrest and hid her face in her hands. Most likely to keep from exploding. When did her mother ever stop to question what _Clarke_ wanted, not what Abby wanted.

The answer is never.  
  
“I can see that this really bothers you, Miss Walters,” Ms Diyoza said in an annoyingly even tone. “But Clarke’s English scores are close to perfect….”  
  
And this was where Clarke tuned them out. She'd already been witness to this exact some discussion multiple times and seen the outcome of it. Quite frankly it was getting a bit boring now. Her mother and the previous guidance counsellor had this fight Clarke's sophomore year when she took the PSAT. Then again last year when she took the SAT and ACT for the first time. Eventually, the guidance counsellor learned her mother always won and started giving up after one round.  
  
Regardless of the outcome, Clarke's test scores were the least of her concerns. Finding the money to fix Wells’ car was the worry that plagued her brain. Since Wells’ death, Abby had remained stubborn on the subject, insisting they should sell it.  
  
“Clarke, are you happy with your scores?” asked Ms Diyoza. To say Clarke was shocked is an understatement. No one had asked for her opinion or input in... well she couldn't even remember the last time. 

Clarke peeked at her through the blonde, wavy hair hanging over her face. The last therapist had understood the hierarchy of their family and talked directly to Abby, never to Clarke. “Excuse me?"  
  
“Are you happy with your ACT and SAT scores? Do you want to retake the tests?” She folded her hands and placed them on top of Clarke's file. “Do you want to apply to more schools?”  
  
Clarke met her mother’s tired brown eyes.

 _Let’s see. Retaking the tests would mean my mother hounding me every second to study, which in turn would mean me getting up early on a Saturday, blowing the whole morning frying my brain and then worrying for weeks over the results. As for applying to more schools? I’d rather retake the tests._ “Not really.”  
  
The worry lines forever etched around Abby's eyes and mouth deepened with disapproval at the sound of Clarke's admission. Sighing, she changed her tune. “My mother is right. I should retake the tests.”  
  
Ms Diyoza scratched away in her file with a pen. Clarke's last therapist had been highly aware of her authority issues. No need to rewrite what was already there.  
  
Marcus strode back into the room and dropped back into the seat next to Clarke. “What did I miss?” Clarke had honestly forgotten he existed for the (too) short time he was gone. Oh, if only her mother would, too.  
  
“Nothing,” Abby replied.  
  
Ms Diyoza finally lifted her pen from the page. “Ask Mrs Woods for the next testing dates before you go to class. And while I’m playing the role of guidance counsellor, I’d like to discuss your schedule for the winter term. You’ve filled your free periods with multiple medical classes. I was wondering why.”  
  
The real answer, because her mother had told her to, would probably irritate multiple people in the room so she went as close to the truth as possible, “They’ll help prepare me for college.” _Wow._ Clarke had said that with all the enthusiasm of a six-year-old waiting for a flu shot and she quickly found that had been a bad choice on her part. Abby shifted in her seat again and sighed. Clarke considered giving a different answer, but figured that reply would also come off flat.  
  
Ms Diyoza perused Clarke's file once again. “You’ve shown an incredible talent in the arts, specifically painting. I’m not suggesting you drop all of your medical courses, but you could drop one and take an art class instead.”  
  
“No,” Abby barked not even giving Clarke a chance to ponder the thought before ripping the option away from her. She leaned forward in her seat, fidgeting with her fingers. “Clarke won’t be taking any art classes. Ever. Is that clear?” Clarke's mother was a strange combination of drill instructor and Alice’s white rabbit: she always had someplace important to go and enjoyed bossing everyone else around.  
  
Clarke had to give Ms Diyoza credit; she never once flinched before she caved. “Crystal.”  
  
“Well, now that we’ve settled that …” Marcus interceded in a bored voice, preparing to stand. “I accidentally overbooked today and should get going. Right Abby?.” Clarke didn't even need to look to know that her mother nodded in agreement. What Marcus says goes. Just like always.  
  
“Mr Kane, Clarke’s academics aren’t the reason for this meeting, but I understand if you need to leave.” She withdrew an official letter from her top drawer as a red-faced Marcus sat back in his seat for the second time. Clarke had seen that letterhead several times over the past two years. Child Protective Services enjoyed killing rain-forests.  
  
Ms Diyoza read the letter to herself while Clarke secretly wished she would spontaneously combust. Anything to get out of this would do. Both her mother and Clarke slouched in their seats. Oh, the freaking joy of group therapy.  
  
While waiting for her to finish reading, Clarke noticed a stuffed green frog by her computer, a picture of her and some guy— possibly her husband—and then on the corner of her desk a big blue ribbon. The fancy kind people received when they won a competition. Something strange stirred inside Clarke. _Huh—weird._  
  
Ms Diyoza hole-punched the letter and then placed it in Clarke's already overwhelmed file. “There. I’m officially your therapist.”  
  
When she said nothing else, Clarke drew her gaze away from the ribbon to her only to find she was watching her. “It’s a nice ribbon, isn’t it, Clarke?”  
  
Her mother cleared her throat and sent Ms Diyoza a death glare. Okay, that was an odd reaction, but then again, she was irritated just to be here. Clarke's eyes flickered to the ribbon again. But then why did it feel so familiar? “I guess.”  
  
Ms Diyoza's eyes drifted to the dog tags Clarke absently fingered around my neck. “I’m very sorry for your family’s loss. What branch of the armed forces?”  
  
_Great._ This is the moment Abby was going to have a stinking coronary. She’d only made it clear seventy-five times that Wells’ dog tags were to stay in the box under her bed, but Clarke needed them today—new therapist, the two-year anniversary of Wells’ death still fresh, and the first day of her last semester of high school. Nausea skipped and played in her intestines. Avoiding her mother’s disappointed frown - a look she'd become quite accustomed with especially in the last two years - Clarke took great pains to search her hair for split ends.  
  
“Marine,” Abby answered curtly. “Look, I’ve got a meeting this morning with prospective clients, I promised Marcus we'd go to lunch and Clarke's missing class. When are we going to wrap this up?”  
  
“When I say so. If you’re going to make these sessions difficult, Miss Griffin," Clarke caught the (purposeful on Ms Diyoza’s end) slip as she's sure everyone else did. For some reason, Clarke found herself smirking. "I will be more than happy to call Echo’s social worker.”  
  
Clarke fought the smile tugging at my lips. Ms Diyoza played a well-choreographed hand. Her mother backed down, but her stepfather on the other hand …  
  
“I don’t understand. Clarke turns eighteen soon. Why does the state still have authority over her?”  
  
“Because it’s what the state, her social worker and myself think is in her best interest.” Ms Diyoza closed Clarke's file. “Clarke will continue therapy with me until she graduates this spring. At that point, the state of Kentucky will release her—and you.”  
  
She waited until Marcus nodded his silent acceptance of the situation before turning her attention to Clarke and continuing. “How are you doing, Clarke?”  
  
_Splendid. Fantastic. Never worse._ “Fine.”  
  
“Really?” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Because I would have thought that the anniversary of your brother’s death might trigger painful emotions.” Hearing Ms Diyoza call Wells her brother warmed her heart as much as it could these days. Because regardless of blood- he was in fact her brother. The closest thing to family she had. And now he too was gone leaving Clarke empty and alone.

The warmness left her heart at the reminder.  
  
Ms Diyoza eyed her while she stared blankly in return. Abby and Marcus watched the uncomfortable showdown. Guilt nagged at Clarke. She didn’t technically ask her a question, so in theory, Clarke didn’t owe her a response, but the need to please her swept over Clarke like a tidal wave. But why? She was just another therapist in the revolving door. They all asked the same questions and promised help, but each of them left Clarke in the same condition as they found her—broken.

“She cries.” Marcus's deep booming voice cut through the silence as if he were dispensing juicy country-club gossip. “All the time. She really misses Wells.”  
  
Both Clarke and her mother turned their heads to look at the bearded man. Clarke willed him to continue while Abby, Clarke was sure, willed him to shut up. The world was on Clarke's side for once. Marcus continued, “We all miss him. It’s so sad that our future children will never meet him.”  
  
First of all, yuck! Future children? And once again, welcome to the Marcus Kane show, sponsored by Marcus and her mother's money. Ms Diyoza wrote briskly, no doubt etching each of Marcus’s unguarded words into Clarke's file while her mother groaned.  
  
“Clarke, would you like to talk about Wells during today’s session?” Ms Diyoza asked.  
  
“No.” That was possibly the most honest answer Clarke had given all morning.  
  
“That’s fine,” she said. “We’ll save him for a later date. What about your father? Have you had any contact with him?”  
  
Marcus and Abby answered simultaneously, “No,” while Clarke sheepishly blurted, “Kind of.”  
  
Clarke felt like the middle of a ham sandwich the way the two of them leaned toward her. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to tell the truth. “I tried calling him over break.” When he didn’t answer, Clarke had sat next to the phone for days, hoping and praying that her father would care that two years before, my brother, his son, had died. Clarke, Wells and Jake. They were their own little family. All that's left of that family now; memories and pain.  
  
Abby ran a hand over her face. “You know you’re not allowed to have contact with your father.” The anger in her voice hinted that she couldn’t believe Clarke had told the therapist this tantalising tidbit. She imagined visions of social workers dancing around in her mother's head. “There is a restraining order. Tell me, Clarke, landline or cell phone?”  
  
“Landline,” Clarke choked out. “But we never talked. I swear.”  
  
Abby swiped at her phone, her lawyer’s number already up on the screen. Clarke clutched the dog tags, Wells’ name and serial number embedding into her palm. “Please, Mum, don’t,” Clarke begged in a whisper.  
  
She hesitated and Clarke's heart pressed against her rib cage. Then, by the grace of God, she dropped the phone to her lap. “We’re going to have to change the number now.”  
  
Clarke nodded. It stunk that her father would never be able to call her home, but she'd take the hit … for him. Of all the things Clarke's father needed, prison wasn’t one of them.  
  
“Have you had contact with your father since then?” Ms Diyoza lost her friendliness.  
  
“No.” Clarke closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Everything inside of her ached. She couldn’t keep up the “I’m fine” facade much longer. This line of questioning ripped at her soul’s freshly scabbed wounds.  
  
“To confirm we’re on the same page, you understand that contact between you and your father while there is a restraining order, even if you initiate it, is forbidden.”  
  
“Yes.” Clarke took another gulp of air. The lump in her throat denied the entry of the precious oxygen. She missed Wells and, gosh, her father, and Marcus was planning on proposing to her mother, and said mother was on her all the time, and … Clarke just needed something, anything.  
  
Against her better judgement, Clarke let the words tumble out of her mouth. “I want to fix Wells’ car.” Maybe, just maybe, restoring something of his would make the pain go away.  
  
“Oh, not this again,” her mother muttered, clearly sick of this topic being brought up. Clarke was sick of her idea being rejected.  
  
“Wait. Not what again? Clarke, what are you talking about?” asked Ms Diyoza.  
  
Clarke stared at the gloves on her hands. “Wells found a 1965 Corvette in a scrap yard. He spent all of his free time fixing it up and he was almost done before he went to Afghanistan. I want to restore it. For Wells.” For herself. Wells didn’t leave anything behind when he left, except the car.  
  
“That sounds like a healthy way to grieve. What are your thoughts on this, Miss Walters?” Ms Diyoza gave great puppy dog eyes—a trait Clarke had yet to master.  
  
Abby scrolled again through her phone, her body present but her mind already at work. It was one of the constants Clarke had in her life. Her mother has always been and will always be a work over family person. “It costs money and I don’t see the point in fixing up a broken-down car when she has a car that works.”  
  
“Then let me get a job,” Clarke snapped annoyed at her mother's terrible excuse. “And we can sell my car once I get Wells’ working.”  
  
All eyes were on Abby and now hers were on Clarke. Without meaning to, Clarke had backed her mother into a corner. She could see Abby wanted to say no, but that would bring down the wrath of the new therapist. After all, they had to be perfect in therapy. God forbid they take advantage of it and hash out some issues.  
  
“Fine, but she has to pay for the car herself, and Clarke knows my rules regarding employment. She has to find a flexible job that will not interfere with her schoolwork, the clubs we agreed upon or her grades. Now, are we done here?”  
  
Ms Diyoza glanced at the clock. “Not quite. Clarke, your social worker extended your therapy until graduation because of your teacher evaluations. Since the beginning of your junior year, each of your teachers has noted a distinct withdrawal from your participation in class and in your social interactions with your peers.” Her kind eyes bored into Clarke's. “Everyone wants you to be happy, Clarke, and I’d like you to give me the opportunity to help.”  
  
Clarke cocked an eyebrow. Like she had a choice about therapy, and as for her happiness—good freaking luck. “Sure.”  
  
Abby's perky voice startled me. “She has a date for the Valentine’s Dance.”  
  
Now Marcus and Clarke took their turn speaking simultaneously. “I do?”—”She does?”  
  
Abby’s eyes darted nervously between Clarke and Marcus like she so often did when lying. “Yes, remember, Clarke? Last night we discussed the new guy you’re into and I told you that you shouldn’t dump your friends at school while you obsessed over some guy.”  
  
Clarke deliberated over which part disturbed her more: the imaginary boyfriend or that she claimed they’d had an actual conversation. While she was deciding, her mother stood and put on her coat. “See, Ms Diyoza, Clarke is fine. Just a little love-struck. As much as I enjoy these sessions, Marcus and I have a lunch to get to in twenty minutes and I don’t want Clarke to miss any more class.”  
  
“Clarke, are you really interested in making money to fix your brother’s car?” Ms Diyoza asked as she stood to escort her mother and stepfather out.  
  
Clarke pulled at the gloves she wore to cover her skin. “More than you could possibly imagine.”  
  
She smiled at Clarke before walking out the door. “Then I’ve got a job for you. Wait here and we’ll discuss the details.”  
  
The three of them huddled together on the far side of the main office, whispering to one another. Her mother wrapped her arm around Marcus’s waist as she leaned into him while they nodded at Ms Diyoza’s hushed words. The familiar pang of jealousy and anger ate at the lining of Clarke's gut. How could she love him when he’d destroyed so much?

* * *

Fresh paint and the scent of drywall dust made Bellamy think of his father, not school. Yet that smell slapped him in the face when he walked into the newly remodelled front office. With books in hand, Bellamy sauntered toward the counter. “‘Sup, Mrs Woods.”  
  
“Bellamy, why are you late again, hun?” she said while stapling papers together.  
  
The clock on the wall flipped to nine in the morning. “Hell, this is early.”  
  
Mrs Woods stepped around her new cherry desk to meet me at the counter. She gave Bellamy crap whenever he came in late (which was always), but he still liked her. With her long brown hair, she reminded Bellamy of a Hispanic version of his mother.  
  
“You missed your appointment with Ms Diyoza this morning. Not a good way to start the second term,” she whispered as she wrote his tardy slip. She tilted her head toward the three adults huddled together in the far corner of the room. Bellamy assumed the middle-aged blonde woman whispering to the rich couple was the new guidance counsellor.  
  
Bellamy shrugged and let the right side of his mouth twitch up. “Oops.”  
  
Mrs Woods slid the tardy slip to me and gave him her patented stern glare. She was the one person at this school who didn’t believe that Bellamy and his future were completely fucked.  
  
The middle-aged blonde called out, “Mr Blake, I’m thrilled you remembered our appointment, even if you are late. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind taking a seat while I finish a few things.” She smiled at Bellamy like they were old friends and spoke so sweetly that for a moment, he almost smiled back. Instead, he nodded and took a seat on the line of chairs pushed against the office wall.  
  
Mrs Woods laughed.  
  
“What?” Bellamy questioned missing out on the memo.  
  
“She’s not going to put up with your attitude. Maybe she’ll convince you to take school seriously.”  
  
Bellamy rested his head against the painted cinder-block wall and shut his eyes, in need of a few more hours’ sleep. Short one person for closing, the restaurant hadn’t let him go until after midnight, and then Raven and Murphy had kept him up.  
  
“Mrs Woods?” asked an angelic voice. “Can you please tell me the upcoming dates for the ACT and SAT?”  
  
The phone rang. “Wait one sec,” said Mrs Woods. Then the ringing ceased.  
  
A chair down the row from Bellamy's shifted and his mouth watered from the aroma of hot cinnamon rolls. He snuck a peek and noticed blonde, silky, wavy hair. He knew her. Clarke Griffin.  
  
Not a cinnamon roll in sight, but damn if she didn’t smell like one. They had several of their main courses together and last semester one of their free periods. Bellamy didn’t know much about her other than she kept to herself, she was smart, a blonde and she had big tits. She wore large, long-sleeved shirts that hung off her shoulders and tank tops underneath that revealed just enough to get the fantasies flowing.  
  
Like always, she stared straight ahead as if he didn’t exist. Hell, he probably didn’t exist in her mind. People like Clarke Griffin irritated the crap out of Bellamy.  
  
“You’ve got a fucked-up name,” Bellamy mumbled. He didn’t know why he wanted to rattle her, he just did.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be getting high in the bathroom?”  
  
So she did know him then. “They installed security cameras. We do it in the parking lot now.”  
  
“My bad.” Her foot rocked frantically back and forth.  
  
_Good._ Bellamy thought, happy with himself for succeeding in getting under that perfect facade. “You named after superman?”  
  
Her foot stopped rocking and blonde waves bounced furiously as she turned to face Bellamy. “How original. I’ve never heard that before.” She swept up her backpack and left the office. Her tight ass swayed side to side as she marched down the hallway. That wasn’t nearly as fun as Bellamy had thought it would be. In fact, he kind of felt like a dick.  
  
“Bellamy?” Ms Diyoza called him into her office.  
  
Bellamy's last guidance counsellor had major neat freak issues. Everything in the office perfectly placed. He used to move his plaques just to mess with him. There’d be no such entertainment with Ms Diyoza. Her desk was a mess. Bellamy could bury a body in here and no one would ever find it.  
  
Taking the seat across from her, Bellamy awaited his ass-chewing.  
  
“How was your Christmas break?” She had that kind look again, sort of like a puppy.  
  
“Good.” That is if you considered your foster mum and dad getting into a screaming match and throwing everyone’s gifts into the fireplace a good Christmas. Bellamy had always dreamed of spending his Christmas in a hellhole basement watching his two best friends get stoned.

“Wonderful. So things are working out with your new foster family.” She said it as a statement, but meant it as a question.  
  
“Yeah.” Compared to the last three families Bellamy'd had, they were the fucking Brady Bunch. This time around, the system had placed him with another kid. Either the people in charge were short on homes or they were finally starting to believe Bellamy wasn’t the menace they’d pegged him to be. People with his labels weren’t allowed to live with other minors. “Look, I already have a social worker and she’s enough of a pain in my ass. Tell your bosses you don’t need to waste your time on me.”  
  
“I’m not a social worker,” she said. “I’m a clinical social worker.”  
  
“Same thing.”  
  
“Actually, it’s not. I went to school for a lot longer.”  
  
“Good for you.”  
  
“And it means I can provide a different level of help for you.”  
  
“Do you get paid by the state?” Bellamy asked.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then I don’t want your help.”  
  
Her lips flinched into an almost smile and he almost had an ounce of respect for her. “How about we shoot this straight?” she said. “According to your file you have a history of violence.”  
  
Bellamy stared at her. She stared at me. That file was full of shit, but he'd learned years ago the word of a teenager meant nothing against the word of an adult.  
  
“This file, Bellamy.” She tapped it three times with her finger. “I don’t think it tells the whole story. I talked to your teachers at Polis High. The picture they painted doesn’t represent the young man I see in front of me.”  
  
Bellamy clutched the spiral metal binding of his calculus notebook until it stabbed the palm of his hand. Who the hell did this lady think she was digging into his past?  
  
She flipped through Bellamy's file. “You’ve been bounced around to several foster homes in the past two and a half years. This is your fourth high school since your parents’ death. What I find interesting is that until a year and a half ago, you still made the honour roll and you still competed in sports. Those are qualities that don’t usually match a disciplinary case.”  
  
“Maybe you need to dig a little further.” Bellamy wanted this lady out of my life and the best way to do that was to scare her. “If you did, you’d find out I beat up my first foster father.” Actually, he had punched him in the face when Bellamy caught him hitting his biological son. Funny how no one in that family took his side when the cops arrived. Not even the kid he'd defended.  
  
Ms Diyoza paused as if she was waiting for him to give her his side of the story, but she was sadly mistaken. Since his parents’ death, Bellamy had learnt that no one in the system gave a crap. Once you entered, you were damned.  
  
“Your old guidance counsellor at Polis spoke highly of you. Made the varsity basketball team your freshman year, honour roll, involved in several student activities, popular amongst your peers.” She surveyed Bellamy. “I think I would have liked that kid.”  
  
So did he—but life sucked. “Little late for me to join the basketball team—halfway through the season and all. Think coach will be fine with my tattoos?”  
  
“I have no interest in you re-creating your old life, but together I think we can build something new. A better future than the one you will have if you continue down your current path.” She sounded so damn sincere. Bellamy wanted to believe her, but he’d learned the hard way to never trust anyone. Keeping his face devoid of emotion, he let the silence build  
  
She broke eye contact first and shook her head. “You’ve been dealt a rough hand, but you’re full of possibilities. Your scores on the aptitude tests are phenomenal and your teachers see your potential. Your grade point average needs a boost, as does your attendance. I believe those are related.  
  
“Now, I have a plan. Along with seeing me once a week, you will attend tutoring sessions until your G.P.A. matches your test scores.”  
  
Bellamy stood. He’d already missed first period. This fun little meeting got him out of second. But since he'd actually gotten his ass out of bed, Bellamy intended to go to class sometime today. “I don’t have time for this.”  
  
A slight edge crept into her tone, so subtle he almost missed it. “Do I need to contact your social worker?”  
  
Bellamy headed for the door. “Go ahead. What is she going to do? Rip my family apart? Put me in the foster care system? Continue to dig and you’ll see you’re too late.”  
  
“When was the last time you saw your sister, Bellamy?”  
  
His hand froze on the doorknob.  
  
“What if I could offer you increased supervised visitation?”  
  
Sighing, Bellamy let go of the doorknob and sat back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on updating this story pretty regularly because I'm really excited about it! I hope you all enjoyed reading so far and if you are please leave a comment and let me know! And even if you aren't let me know what could be better!


	2. Chapter 2

If only Clarke could wear gloves every moment of the day, she’d feel more secure, but the stupid dress code wouldn’t let her. Because of this, her wardrobe consisted of anything with long sleeves— the longer the better.

She clutched the ends of her sleeves and pulled them over her fingers, causing the blue cotton shirt to hang off her right shoulder. Clarke's freshman year, she would have freaked if people stared at her white skin and the occasional freckle. Now, she preferred for people to look at her bare shoulder instead of trying to catch a glimpse of the scars on her arms.

"Did she say who it was? I bet you it’s Illian. I heard he’s failing maths and if he doesn’t get his grades up he’ll lose his scholarship to college. God, I hope it is. He is so hot.” Clarke's best friend, Harper McIntyre, took her first breath since she'd given her the rundown on her counselling session and the tutoring job Ms Diyoza spontaneously created. With her nonstop mouth and tight clothes, Harper was Arkadia High’s own version of Glinda the Good Witch. She floated in her own beautiful bubble spreading happiness and cheer.

As Harper moved her tray down the lunch line, the smell of pizza and French fries made Clarke's mouth water, but the nausea roiling in her stomach kept her from buying food. Her heart thundered and Clarke hugged her sketch pad closer to her chest. Clarke honestly couldn’t believe she was actually in the lunchroom. Harper and her had been best friends since preschool and the one thing she’d asked of Clarke for Christmas was that she'd ditch the library and reclaim her old spot at their lunch table.

It may have sounded like an easy request, but to Clarke; it wasn’t. The last time she'd eaten lunch in the cafeteria was at the beginning of May during her sophomore year: the day before Clarke's entire world fell apart. Back then, no one stared at her or whispered as she walked past.

“Who’s hot?” Emori cut the line by sliding her tray between Clarke and Harper. A group of guys behind them groaned at her boldness. As usual, Emori ignored them. Emori was the second of two people who refused to treat Clarke like a social pariah because of the gossip flying around about her at school.

Harper pulled her sleek golden hair into a ponytail before paying the cashier. “Illian. Clarke is going to tutor some lucky guy and I’m guessing it might be him. Who would you like to add to our list of hot yet stupid boys?”

Clarke followed them to the lunch table as Emori’s eyes roamed the cafeteria, searching for the right combination. “John Murphy. He’s dumber than dirt, but I could eat him for dessert. If you’re tutoring him, Clarke, think you could introduce me?”

“Introduce who to who?” asked Lexa. Emori and Harper took their seats but Clarke hesitated.

Lexa’s smile fell when she spotted Clarke. She was the main reason why Clarke didn’t want to return to the lunchroom. They were total best friends before the incident and, Clarke supposes, even after. She visited Clarke every day in the hospital and at home during the summer, but when their junior year began and her social status took a nosedive, so did their friendship- in public that is. In private she claimed to love Clarke like a sister. Everyone else at school treated her like she didn’t exist.

“Emori to John Murphy.” Harper patted the seat between her and Emori. Attempting to hide, Clarke dropped into the chair, slouched and propped her sketch pad against the edge of the table.

The other girls whispered to each other as they glimpsed Clarke. One even giggled. From the time she’d come back to school, Clarke never had a social shot. The rumours about why she was absent for the last month of her sophomore year ranged from pregnancy to rehab to attempted suicide. Her gloves became the kindling and her memory loss the match. When Clarke returned that fall, the rumours exploded into a firestorm.

Harper continued her explanation. “Clarke’s going to be tutoring some dumb hottie. We’re trying to guess who it will be.”

“Well, don’t hold out on us, Harper. Who is Clarke tutoring?” Lexa’s eyes flickered from Harper to the girls on her squad sitting at the table. When they'd returned for junior year, Lexa had found out she had a shot at making head cheerleader—a difficult feat since she’d always hovered in the periphery of popular in that crowd. Clarke had assumed things between them would go back to normal once she was voted in. She’d been mistaken.

“Ask Clarke.” Harper’s teeth crunched into the apple, her hardened gaze locked on Lexa. Their table became eerily silent as the most beautiful girl at school openly defied the most popular girl at school. A lull fell over the cafeteria as the student body prepared to watch the showdown in progress. Clarke would have sworn a tumbleweed blew past the table and that weird Western whistle song played on the loudspeaker.

Clarke gave Harper’s foot a nudge, begging her in her mind to answer for me, instead of forcing Lexa to acknowledge Clarke in front of other people. Seconds ticked by as neither flinched in the stare-down.

She couldn’t take it. “I don’t know. I meet him this afternoon.” Ms Diyoza didn’t want to say who she'd be tutoring. She’d mumbled something about smoothing over a few details with him before we met.

Movement and chatter resumed in the cafeteria. The muscles in Lexa’s face relaxed and she took a relieved breath before taking stock of the reaction of her public friends. “I’ll play guess the stupid hunk.” She sent Clarke a private wink. For the billionth time, Clarke just wished her life could go back to normal.

When Lexa threw out a name the rest of the group also decided to play. Clarke sketched Lexa as they talked. Her new short brown haircut framed her face perfectly. She listened to their name-dropping and the new school gossip that accompanied their guesses.

“Maybe Clarke’s tutoring Finn Collins,” Harper said with a not-so-gentle nudge of my arm. “He fits hunk and less-than-bright.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and did her best to fix the dark line Harper's nudge had created on her drawing. Harper held on to the false hope that Finn, Clarke's boyfriend from her life before, still harboured feelings for her. She substantiated her claim with made-up stories of how he watched Clarke when she wasn’t paying attention.

“Finn and Echo broke up over the winter break,” said Lexa. “Echo says she broke up with him. Finn says he broke up with her. Who knows if we’ll ever find out the truth?” “Who would you believe, Clarke?” Emori asked. Gotta give her credit. She wanted Clarke to participate in the conversation, regardless of whether she wanted to be included.

Clarke focused on shading the shadow Lexa’s hair created against her ear. After meeting Finn in freshman English, she’d dated him for a year and a half. This made her the table’s Finn expert. Since their breakup, every table with a female contained a Finn expert. “Hard to say. I broke up with Finn and he didn’t claim any differently, but he’s changed a lot since then.”

“Bellamy Blake,” Emori said.

Clarke stopped sketching, confused about what Bellamy had to do with Finn. “What?”

“Guess the hunk, remember? Bellamy Blake is definitely hot. I’d tutor him.” Clarke stared over at the stoner table, practically drooling. How could she swoon over the guy who’d made fun of her?

Lexa's mouth gaped. “And take the social hit? No way.”

“I said I’d tutor him, not take him to prom. Besides, from what I’ve heard, quite a few girls have ridden that train and loved every second of it.”

Lexa glanced at Bellamy, eyes wandering up, then down. “You’re right. He’s hot, and rumour has it he’s only into one-nighters. Though Bree tried to force a relationship. She followed him around like a pathetic puppy dog. He wanted nothing to do with her if it didn’t involve the backseat of his car.”

Harper loved dirt. “She lost her boyfriend, her virginity, her reputation and her self-respect in less than a month. That’s why she transferred to another school.”

Guys like Bellamy Blake ticked Clarke off. He used girls, used drugs and had made her feel like crap this morning. Not that she should be surprised. Clarke had a couple of classes with him last semester. He’d stride into the room like he owned the earth and smirk when girls fell all over themselves in his presence. “What a jerk.”

As if he heard Clarke from across the room, his dark eyes met mine. His curly brown hair fell over them, but Clarke could tell he was looking at me. The stubble on his face moved as he smiled. Bellamy had muscles, looks and trouble stalking him. Somehow, he made jeans and a T-shirt look dangerous. Not that Clarke was into girl-using stoners. Yet, she took another peek at him while sipping her drink.

“Harsh words, Clarke. You’re not talking about me, are you?” A chair scraped the floor. Finn flipped it around so he could straddle it between Emori and Lexa. Come freaking on. Finn and Clarke had barely spoken a word to each other since they broke up sophomore year. Why was everyone pushing Clarke into social mode today?

“No,” said Harper. “We talked about you earlier. Clarke was calling Bellamy Blake a jerk.” Once again, Clarke kicked her under the table. Harper sent her a glare in return. “Blake?” Finn: built like a freight train with black hair, blue eyes, captain of the basketball team, hot and full of himself. To Clarke's horror, he sized Bellamy up. “What’s stoner boy done to deserve your wrath?”

“Nothing.” Clarke returned to my sketch pad. Her cheeks burned when one of Lexa’s public friends mumbled something about Clarke's weirdness. Why couldn’t Harper, Emori and Finn just leave her alone? The gossip only became worse when Clarke crept out of her shell.

Unfortunately, Harper chose to ignore my red cheeks and her warning kick. “He made fun of Clarke this morning, but don’t worry, she told him off.”

The pencil in Clarke's hand bowed from her tighter grip as she fought the urge to yank Harper’s gorgeous hair out of her head. Clarke's teachers and Ms Diyoza were so wrong. Interacting with her peers stunk.

Finn’s eyes narrowed. “What did he say to you?”

Clarke stomped on Lila’s toes and stared straight at her. “Nothing.”

“He told her that she had an effed-up name and then did the stupid superman thing people did in elementary school,” said Harper. Oh, God, Clarke wanted to murder her best friend.

“You want me to talk to him?” Finn stared at me with a familiar hint of possessiveness. Both Lexa and Emori smiled like Cheshire cats. Clarke refused to look at Harper, who bounced in her seat. Now she would never hear the end of her fantasies about Finn and her getting back together.

“No. He’s a stupid guy who said a stupid thing. He probably doesn’t even remember saying it.” Finn chuckled. “True. That whole table’s screwed up. Did you know that Blake is a foster kid?”

The girls at her table gasped at the new gossip. Clarke checked out Bellamy again. He appeared deep in conversation with some girl with long brown hair.

“Yep,” Finn continued. “Heard Mr Pike and Mr Lightbourne discussing it in the hallway.” The bell rang, ending Finn’s spotlight on the forbidden information about Bellamy Blake.

While Clarke threw away the remains of her lunch, Lexa sidled up beside her and whispered, “This was huge, Clarke. If Finn’s into you again, life will change. Who he talks to and dates changes everyone’s opinion. Maybe things will finally get back to normal.” One of Lexa’s public friends called out to her and she left Clarke's side without a second glance. Clarke sighed as she pulled her sleeves over her fingers. What she wouldn’t give for normal.

* * *

Bellamy had told Ms Diyoza the truth. He didn’t have time for tutoring or counselling. In June, he would turn eighteen and graduate from foster care. That meant Bellamy would need a place of his own, and rent meant a job. But Ms Diyoza had played him like a street hustler. An occasional supervised visit with his sister wasn’t enough. She dangled her in front of Bellamy like a damn needle to a heroin addict.  
  
His shift at the Trikru started at five. Bellamy glanced at the clock hanging over the reference librarian’s desk. What part of “meet the guy you’re tutoring directly after school at the public library” did his know-it-all misunderstand? Ms Diyoza might have mentioned who would be tutoring him, but Bellamy had stopped listening after a few minutes. The lady talked too much.  
  
Bellamy focused on the double doors. Five more minutes and he could happily call this session a failure, a fact Bellamy would be thrilled to throw in Ms Diyoza's face.

One door opened and cold air swept in, causing goose bumps to rise on his arms. Ah, hell. Bellamy leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Clarke Griffin glided into the library.

Her eyes swept the room while her gloved hands rubbed her arms. Like the cold could penetrate that fancy-ass brown leather coat. A light, sunshine smile rested on her face. It appeared Ms Diyoza had kept them both in the dark. The moment she saw Bellamy, her smile faded and her blue eyes erupted with thunderclouds. Join the fucking club.

From under the table, Bellamy kicked out the chair opposite me. “You’re late.”

She set her book bag on the table and scooted the chair in as she sat. “I had to go to the office and find out testing dates. I could have gotten the information this morning, but some jerk got in my way.”

Good advantage Clarke, but Bellamy smiled at her like he had the upper hand. “You could have stayed. I never asked you to leave.”

“And let you harass me some more? No, thanks.” She shrugged off her jacket, but kept on her knitted gloves. She smelled of cold and leather. Her blue cotton shirt dipped below her beige tank, exposing the top of her cleavage. Girls like her enjoyed teasing guys. Little did she know, he didn’t mind looking.

Catching Bellamy staring, Clarke readjusted her shirt and her cleavage disappeared from view. Well, that was fun. She glared at him, possibly waiting for an apology. She’d be waiting a long time.

“What subject are you failing? All of them?” Those blue eyes danced. It appeared Clakre also enjoyed dishing out shit.

All right, he'd screwed with her this morning for no reason. She deserved to get a couple blows in. “None. Ms Diyoza is calling the shots on this.”

Clarke opened her backpack and withdrew a notebook. A shadow crossed her face when she slid off the gloves and immediately pulled her long sleeves over her hands. “What subject do you want to start with? We have calculus and physics together, so we could start there. You’ve got to be a complete moron if you need help with business technology.” She paused. “And weren’t you in my Spanish class last term?”

Bellamy lowered his head so his hair fell into his eyes. For a girl who didn’t know Bellamy existed, she sure knew a lot about him. “Yeah.” And this term, too. She barely beat the bell walking into class and took the first seat available without giving anyone a second look.

“Qué tan bien hablas español?” she asked.

How well could Bellamy speak Spanish? Pretty damn decent. He shoved away from the table. “I gotta go.”

“What?” Her forehead crinkled in disbelief.

“Unlike you, I don’t have parents to pay for everything. I’ve got a job, Princess, and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late. See you around.”

Grabbing his books and jacket, Bellamy left the table and immediately exited the library. The cold January air smacked him in the face. Ice covered several spots on the pavement.

“Hey!”

Bellamy glanced over his shoulder. Clarke ran after him, leather jacket on one arm and pack slung over her back.

“Get your damn jacket on. It’s cold outside.” Bellamy didn’t stop for her, but he slowed his pace, curious as to why she followed him out.

Clarke caught up quickly and kept step beside Bellamy. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I told you, to work. I thought you were smart.” He had never met anyone so fun to mess with.

“Fine. Then when are we going to make this session up?”

Bellamy slammed his books on the piece of crap he called a car, causing rust to scatter to the ground. “We’re not. I’ll make you a deal. You tell Ms Diyoza that we’re meeting as many days after school as you want, collect whatever volunteer hours you need for whatever little club you belong to, and I’ll back you up. I won’t have to see you and you won’t have to look at me. I get to continue with my screwed up life and you get to go home and play dress-up with your friends. Deal?”

Clarke winced and backed away as if Bellamy had slapped her. She lost her footing when she hit a patch of ice. His right hand swept out and snatched her wrist before her body could smack the ground.

Bellamy kept hold of her while she steadied herself using the trunk of my car. Embarrassment or cold flushed her white cheeks. Either way, he found it funny. But before Bellamy had a chance to make fun of her, Clarke's eyes widened and she stared down at the wrist he held.

Her long blue sleeve was hiked past her elbow and Bellamy followed her gaze to the exposed skin. She attempted to yank her hand away, but he tightened my grip and swallowed my disgust. In all the horror-show homes he'd lived in, Bellamy had never once saw mutilation like that. White and pale red, raised scars zigzagged up her arm. “What the fuck is that?”

Bellamy tore his eyes away from the scars and searched her face for answers. She sucked in several shallow gasps before yanking a second time and successfully jerking out of his grasp. “Nothing.”

“That ain’t nothing.” And that something had to hurt like hell when it happened.

Clarke stretched her sleeve past her wrist to her fingertips. She resembled a corpse. The blood rushed out of her cheeks and her body quaked with silent tremors. “Leave me alone.”

She turned away and stumbled back to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of fun writing this story and I hope you guys are enjoying! Please leave a comment behind if you are!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW // slight mentions of suicide and cutting. Please make sure you keep yourself safe!

“Nothing,” said Harper. “Not a word, not a peep, not a sound. Emori, Lexa and I even put a few feelers out to the juniors, but there is absolutely no gossip flying about you." Harper paused for a second before amending. "Well, at least nothing involving Bellamy Blake.”  
  
Harper sat in the passenger seat and Clarke sat in the driver’s side of Wells’ 1965 Corvette. Harper had come home with Clarke to act as her barrier for Family Friday—or as she liked to refer to it, Dinner for the Damned.

In the garage, the radio played from Clarke's car. Wells’ Corvette still had its original radio. Translation: a piece of crap, but the rest of the car was totally beast. Flashy blood-red with black pin-striping running horizontally— Wells typically lost Clarke at this point, but he would still continue talking even though her eyes glazed over—three functional, vertical front, slanting louvres on the sides of the front fenders; a blacked-out, horizontal-bars grille and different rocker panel mouldings.  
  
Clarke had no idea what that meant, but Wells said it enough that she had the description memorised. The car looked awesome, but it didn’t run. Thanks to Bellamy Blake, her chances of it ever running lessened each day. Clarke tightened her hands on the steering wheel and remembered Wells’ promise to her. Days before he left, he had hovered over the open hood as she sat on the workbench.  
  
_“It’s going to be okay, Clarke.” Wells’ eyes had flicked to my rocking foot. “It’s only a six-month deployment.”_  
  
_“I’m fine,” Clarke had said, blinking three times as she so often did when distressed. She didn’t want him to leave. Wells was the only person in the world who understood the craziness of their family, plus he was the only one capable of keeping the peace between Clarke, Marcus and her mother. He wasn’t Marcus’ biggest fan, but regardless of his feelings, he always encouraged Clarke to give him a break._  
  
_He chuckled. “Next time at least try to stop your telltale sign of lying. One of these days your mum will pick up on it.”_  
  
_“Will you write?” Clarke asked, changing the subject. He’d talked a lot about her mother before he left._  
  
_“And email and Skype.” He wiped his hands on an already greasy rag and stretched to his full six feet. “I’ll tell you what. When I get home and finish the car, you can be first to drive it. After me, of course.”_  
  
_Clarke's foot stopped rocking and she was flooded with the first real feeling of hope since Wells told her of his deployment. Wells would return home as long as his car waited for him. He’d given Clarke a dream and she held on to it after he left. Her dreams died with him on a desolate road in Afghanistan._  
  
“What are you thinking about?” asked Harper, back in the present.  
  
“Bellamy Blake,” Clarke lied. “He’s had all week to tell the whole school about my scars. What do you think he’s waiting for?”  
  
“Maybe Bellamy doesn’t have anyone to tell. He’s a stoner foster kid who needs tutoring.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” she answered. Or maybe he was waiting for the perfect moment to make Clarke's life a living hell.  
  
Harper played with the rings on her fingers, signalling nerves.  
  
“What?” Clarke asked, recognising this.  
  
She had to strain to hear Harper's mumbled answer. “We told Finn.”  
  
Every single muscle in Clarke's neck tightened and she released her grip on the steering wheel, terrified she'd rip the plastic to shreds. “You what?”  
  
Harper turned in her seat, wringing her hands in her lap. “He’s in our English class. Instead of proofreading each others’ papers, Emori, Lexa and I were discussing the Bellamy situation and your scars and … Finn overheard a few things.”  
  
Clarke's heart pounded in her ears. For almost two years, she’d kept this horrible secret and in one week two people had forced their way into her personal nightmare.  
  
When she didn’t say anything Harper continued, “Those scars are not your fault. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Your father definitely does and possibly your mother, but you? Nothing. Finn already knew your father was freaking psychotic and he never told anyone. He’s a moron, but even he could figure out your dad hurt you.”  
  
Clarke didn't know how to feel. Should she be mad? Relieved? She settled for numb. “He’s not psychotic,” Clarke murmured, knowing that anything she said regarding her father fell on deaf ears. “He has issues.”  
  
In a slow, deliberate movement, Harper placed her hand over Clarke's, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze. A reminder she’d love Clarke regardless. “We think you should tell people. You know, take the offensive instead of the defensive. That way if Bellamy tells everybody, people will already know the real story and think he’s a jerk for making fun of you.”  
  
Clarke stared at Wells' workbench. Her father never tinkered with tools. If something broke, he called someone to fix it. But Wells had loved to tinker. He spent every moment here in this garage. God, she needed him. Clarke needed him to tell me what to do.  
  
“Please say something, Clarke.” The heartbreak in Harper’s voice broke hers.  
  
“Whose idea was it?” She asked, even though Clarke knew the answer. “Lexa?” She’d wanted Clarke to tell the whole school what’d happened immediately.  
  
“That’s not fair.” Harper exhaled. “Not that Lexa has been fair to you either. She swore this whole public versus private thing would end after the head cheerleader vote, but here’s the thing, Clarke. She wants what we all want—everything back to normal. As long as everyone thinks you’re a cutter or tried to commit suicide you’ll always be on the outs. Maybe this whole Bellamy thing is a blessing in disguise.”  
  
Clarke looked at Harper for the first time since she’d broken the news. “My father," she paused to let the words sink in before continuing, "is off-limits.”  
  
“We’ll back you.” Harper rushed out the words. “Finn said he’d tell his friends about the crazy dad episodes he witnessed when the two of you were dating. You know, to add legitimacy to your story. And when Lexa heard that, she agreed to tell everyone what she, Emori and I saw in the hospital. We saw the cops. We heard your mother yelling at your father. Lexa wants this so badly—we all do.”  
  
“Because having a crazy father and no memory of the night he tried to kill me is so much better than people guessing I’m a cutter or tried to commit suicide.”  
  
Harper spoke softly. “People will feel bad for you. Being a victim … it makes it different. That’s what Lexa has been trying to tell you all along.”  
  
Anger snapped Clarke's frail patience. “I don’t want their sympathy and I don’t want the worst night of my life up for discussion for the whole school. If I ever tell anyone what happened, I want to be able to tell them the truth, not that I’m some pathetic moron who remembers nothing.” Clarke rapped the back of my head against the seat and stared at the ceiling of the car. Deep breaths, Clarke. Deep breaths.  
  
She remembered absolutely nothing about that night. Her mother, Marcus and her father knew the truth. But Clarke was forbidden to speak to her father, and her mother and Marcus believed what the therapists said. That when her mind could handle the truth, she’d remember.  
  
_Whatever._ Clarke huffed in annoyance and frustration that never quite left her. They weren’t the ones who lay in bed at night trying to figure out what happened. They weren’t the ones who woke up screaming. They weren’t the ones wondering if they were losing their minds.   
  
They weren’t the ones who felt hopeless. Clarke was. And that's all she has felt for two long, miserable years.  
  
“Clarke …” Harper faltered, took a deep breath, and stared out the windshield. This had to be bad. Harper always could make eye contact. “Have you ever thought that maybe you’ve brought some of this on yourself?”

Clarke flinched and fought to control the anger shaking her insides. “Excuse me?”  
  
“I know it was rough coming back after what happened between you and your dad, but have you ever wondered if maybe you’d come back in September and continued life as normal, people would have eventually moved on? I mean, you sort of became a recluse.”  
  
The anger gave way to a hurt that shoved Clarke's heart into her throat. Was this how her best friend saw her? As a coward? A failure? “Yeah, I did think of that.” And she waited before speaking again to keep her voice from cracking. “But the more I put myself out there, the more people talked. Remember last year’s dance team tryouts? People tend to gossip about what they see.”  
  
Her head lowered. “I remember.”  
  
“Why?” Clarke asked her. “Why bring this all up now?”  
  
“Because you’re trying, Clarke. You actually came to lunch. You’re talking to people. It’s the first time since our sophomore year that I’ve seen you try and I’m terrified you’re going to go back into your shell.” She turned to face Clarke with a strange spring in her movements. “Don’t let what Bellamy saw scare you off. Come to Ontari’s party with me tomorrow night.”  
  
Had she lost her mind? “No way.”  
  
“Come on,” she pleaded. “It’s your birthday tomorrow. We have to go out for your birthday.”  
  
“No.” Clarke wanted to forget that the day even existed. Her father and Wells used to make a holiday out of Clarke's birthday. Without them… without them, it all felt pointless. Stupid, even. There wasn't anyone else in this world who loved Clarke like they had loved her. So, without them, what was the point?  
  
Harper clasped her hands together and placed them under her chin. “Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Try it my way and if it doesn’t work I swear I’ll never bring it up again. And did I mention I overheard Abby tell Marcus that she wanted to take you out to dinner? At a restaurant. A fancy one. With five courses. One little yes to me and I can get you out of it.”  
  
Dinner for the Damned on Fridays was bad enough. Dinner for the Damned in public would be inhumane. Clarke took another deep breath. Harper had stuck with her through it all: her father’s insanity, her parents’ divorce, Wells’ death and now this. She may not know it yet, but Harper was about to receive her birthday present. “Fine.”  
  
She squealed and clapped her hands together. In one long, continuous sentence, Harper described her plans for the next night. Maybe Harper and Lexa were right. Maybe life could go back to normal. Clarke could hide her scars and go to parties and just lie low. Bellamy hadn’t told anybody and maybe he wouldn’t.  
  
Besides, only four more months till graduation and after that she could wear gloves every day for the rest of her life.

* * *

Twenty-eight anxious days had passed since Bellamy had visited this bleakly decorated room in the social services building. The clowns and elephants painted on the wall were meant to invite happiness, yet the longer he looked, the more sinister they became. Nervous as hell and holding one wrapped gift, Bellamy sat on a cold folding chair. He didn’t need this reminder of how screwed up his family had become. His little sister used to shadow Bellamy's every footstep, worshipping the ground he walked on. Now, Bellamy wasn't even sure if Octavia remembered their last name.  
  
Bellamy waited like a caged jack-in-the-box ready to spring. The social worker needed to bring his sister in before his nerves exploded. For some reason, Clarke and her rocking foot came to mind. She must be wound twice as tight as him. The thought sent a sense of peace rushing through his body, shocking him.  
  
His mother’s voice chimed in his head. _“You must always look presentable. It’s important to put your best foot forward.”_  
  
Bellamy had shaved, which he normally didn’t bother doing every day. His mum and dad would have hated his hairstyle and any sign of stubble on Bellamy's face. With his mother in mind, Bellamy didn’t let his hair grow past his ears on the sides, but, out of self-preservation, he’d let the top grow a little long, denying people access to his eyes.  
  
The door opened and Bellamy automatically stood with the gift still in his hands. Octavia flew through the door and rammed her body into mine. Her head reached Bellamy's stomach now. He tossed the present on the table, lowering himself to Octavia’s level and wrapped his arms around her. Bellamy's heart dropped. Man, she’d grown.  
  
Bellamy's social worker, a lady in her fifties, paused in the door frame. “Remember, no asking personal questions about her foster parents. I’ll be on the other side of that mirror.”

He glared at Becca. She glared back at Bellamy before she left. At least the hate was mutual. After he hit his first foster father, the system had labelled Bellamy as emotionally unstable and he’d lost the right to see Octavia. Since he’d had no outbursts with any of his other foster families and showed “improvement,” Bellamy had recently regained once-a-month supervised visitation.  
  
Octavia mumbled into Bellamy's shoulder, “I missed you, Bell.”  
  
Bellamy pulled away and looked at is twelve-year-old sister. She had our mother’s brown hair, blue eyes and nose. “I missed you too, O. What kept you so long?”  
  
Octavia diverted her gaze to the floor, trying to hide her face. “Mum … I mean …” she stuttered. “Indra. She needed to speak to me. I was a little nervous.” Her eyes met his, full of worry. That's when Bellamy saw the bruise painted on her fragile face. He saw red but held it in for Octavia's sake.  
  
It took everything in Bellamy to fake a smile as he messed up her hair. “No worries, O. You want to open your present?”  
  
She flashed a smile that reminded Bellamy of their mother and nodded. He handed Octavia her gift and watched her open the box that contained a set of mythology books. Mythology had always been a favourite of Bellamy's and Octavia's and now that he wasn't able to read them to her anymore, Bellamy thought this would have to do. Octavia sat on the floor and lost interest in Bellamy as she tore open each book, occasionally telling him random facts about a particular character she liked.  
  
Bellamy glanced at the clock and then at the door. He only had so much time with Octavia but he couldn't stop the rage eating at him, yelling at him to go find an explanation for the bruise Octavia wore. Even though he'd told Octavia it was okay, it wasn’t.   
  
“How are things with Indra and her husband?” Bellamy tried to sound nonchalant, but this question made him nervous. He had firsthand experience with shitty foster parents and he'd kill anybody who tried to treat his sister like those people had treated him.  
  
Octavia ruffled through the books, looking a the pictures. “Fine. They told me on Christmas that I could start calling them Mum and Dad if I wanted to.”  
  
_Son of a bitch_. Bellamy's fist clenched and he bit the inside of his mouth, drawing blood.  
  
Octavia looked away from her books for the first time. “Where you going, Bellamy?”  
  
“To talk to Indra.” He only had forty-five minutes left. If they wanted to play dirty, so could he.  
  
The minute Bellamy entered the hallway, Becca stepped out of the observation room connected to his, shutting the door behind her. “Get back in there and visit with your sister. You already complain that you don’t see her enough.”  
  
Bellamy pointed my finger at her. “I earned at least two hours a month with my sister. At least—not limited to. Octavia came in at least 30 minutes late. If this continues, I’m going to call a lawyer and tell him you’re knowingly keeping me from my sister.”  
  
Becca stared at me for a second then started to laugh. “You’re a smart boy, Bellamy. Learning the system and using it to your advantage. Get back in there. I'll see to it.” Je turned, but Becca called out, “And Bellamy, if you ever point your finger at me again, I’ll break it off and hand it to you.”  
  
Octavia gave Bellamy their mother's smile again when her reentered. Her focused on shoving the anger out of my system. Octavia was his priority right now. Then, he could get angry at the perpetrators.  
  
Indra, the perfect adult with black hair, entered the room with a worried look on her face, no doubt to do with the bruise adjourning Octavia's face.  
  
Becca walked in to stand beside her. “It was an accident. I should have told you before she came in, but it slipped my mind.”  
  
Bellamy's eyes narrowed as he looked straight at her. “We’ll discuss this later.” He returned to his sister and hoped he could get Octavia to remember their family more vividly before their time was up.

* * *

Once again, Bellamy sat on the folding chair, but he wasn’t nervous this time. He was fucking pissed.  
  
Becca took the seat opposite him. “Indra and her husband got Octavia a bike for Christmas and they let her ride it a couple of days ago without a helmet. When she fell, they immediately took her to the hospital and notified me. They feel horrible.”  
  
“They should,” Bellamy barked. “How do you know they didn’t hit her?”  
  
Becca picked up the blue ribbon from Octavia’s package. “They’re good people. I don’t believe they would intentionally hurt your sisterr.”  
  
Yeah. Genuine saints. “If they’re so great, then they should stop stonewalling me and let me see my sister.”  
  
“They took on Octavia after the incident with your first foster family, Bellamy. They’d heard that you were emotionally unstable. That alone proves how much they care for your sister. Indra and her husband don’t want to see her get hurt.”  
  
Bellamy's fist closed and he kept his hand under the table to prevent himself from pounding the wall like he wanted. Becca would love more leverage to prove my instability. “I would never hurt them.”  
  
“I know that,” Becca said knowingly with a hint of defeat. “Why do you think I suggested that Ms Diyoza take you on?”  
  
Bellamy groaned, he should have known. “So she’s your fault.”  
  
She leaned forward, placing her arms on the table. “You’re a great kid, Bellamy. You’ve got a lot of potential in front of you if you’d just lose the attitude.”  
  
He shook my head. “I thought I proved myself already. Christ, you’ve placed me in a home with another teenager.”  
  
“I told you. This can be a slow process. Just come to the visitations, behave and work with Ms Diyoza. By the time you graduate, I’m sure we can move on to unsupervised visitation.”  
  
_Unsupervised visitation?_ A muscle in Bellamy's jaw jumped. _Bullshit_. “I’ll be eighteen by the time I graduate. I’ll have custody by then.”  
  
Becca’s face twitched with amusement, but then became solemn. “You think you could raise your brothers while working at a fast-food joint? You think a judge would choose you over Indra and her husband? You think they'd choose you over a stable home?”  
  
_Choose him over Indra and her husband?_ The realisation that the judge might have this choice created a disturbing nausea in Bellamy's gut. Octavia had said they wanted her to call them Mum and Dad. “They are filing for adoption, aren’t they?”  
  
The moment she looked away, Bellamy knew the answer. There was no way in hell anyone but him would raise his sister. “You’re right, Becca. I’ve learned a lot in the past two and a half years. I’ve learned that this state takes blood into consideration and that the excuse of me being emotionally unstable must not be sticking if I’ve been placed in a home with another foster kid. I may not be able to take care of my sister now, but in four months I will.”  
  
Ready to leave, Bellamy pushed away from the table and stood. Becca’s eyes crunched together in anger. “Don’t mess that girl's life up over an accident.”  
  
He spun around and pulled up his sleeve, pointing at the round scar on my bicep. “My first foster father called that an accident. The best way to describe his son is as an accident. And what type of accident would you call what the rest of those abusive idiots did? I’ve got words for them, but you forbade that type of language. My sister will never be and accident of this system.”  
  
With that, Bellamy stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Watching beer pong typically bored Clarke, but not when Harper continued to kick everyone’s butt. The girl was on fire. Plus anytime the opposing team hit her cup, she asked some random guy to drink it. Guys always lined up to do her bidding.  
  
“Are you going to play?” Finn asked.  
  
Caught up in her own thoughts, Clarke had missed his approach. “Nope. This is all Harper.” Plus she didn’t do anything that drew attention to her.  
  
“Tonight should be all about you. It is your birthday.” He paused. “Happy birthday, Clarke.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“So you gonna watch her all night?” Finn appraised the game with his thumbs hitched in his pockets. If Clarke didn’t know better, she'd say he was up to something.  
  
“Buddy system. I’ve got Harper and Harper’s got me. Emori and Lexa are around here somewhere.” Clarke surveyed the kitchen, half expecting them to spontaneously appear.  
  
“Smart, yet annoying.” Finn placed his palm on the wall next to Clarke's head, but kept his body a safe distance from her. When he used to do that, he would crowd Clarke with his body, causing butterflies to pole-vault in her stomach. Then he would lean in closer and kiss her. Those days were long gone—the crowding, the butterflies, the pole-vaulting and especially the kissing. “I was going to ask you to dance.”  
  
Clarke made a show of looking around. “Who you trying to make jealous, Finn?”  
  
He withdrew his hand and laughed—really laughed. Not the fake one he used in the cafeteria with his girl of the week. “Come find me when Harper's done playing games.”

Harper threw her hands in the air and yelled as she demolished, once again, another team. At this point, Clarke was sure they were letting her win just so she’d continue to play. Finn disappeared.  
  
Harper grabbed one of the remaining cups of beer and walked away from the table, to the dismay of the guys who hung on her every movement. She drank half then handed the rest to Clarke. “Here. Emori's still DD, right?”  
  
“Yep.” Clarke took the cup from her and finished it off. She didn’t particularly care for the taste, but when at a kegger…  
  
Clarke enjoyed the warm fuzzy feeling the beer eventually brought on. The edges of her life didn’t seem so bad then. Week number two of the second term had brought on her first one-on-one therapy session with Ms Diyoza, no job, and the fear that Bellamy Blake would change his mind and tell everyone about her scars. The two of them had gone back to ignoring each other. “Ms Diyoza asked me this week if I drank. I’m really tired of lying to her.”  
  
Ontari, host of the party, walked by with a tray full of beers for another round of beer pong. Harper stole two and passed one to Clarke. “Adults want us to lie. They expect us to lie. They want to live in their perfect little worlds and pretend we do nothing more than eat cookie dough and watch reality TV.”

Clarke sipped the beer. “But we do eat cookie dough and watch reality TV.”  
  
Harper stumbled before narrowing her eyes at me. “Exactly. We do that to take them off guard.”  
  
The warm fuzzy feeling that helped take the edge off also slowed the thought process. Clarke ran through what she said twice. “That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
She waved her hand around like she was going to explain. Her hand kept moving, but her mouth stayed shut. Finally she dropped her hand and took another drink. “I’ve got no clue. Let’s dance, birthday girl.”  
  
They threw their empty cups in the garbage and wove through the crowd to the source of the pumping music. Music … dancing … Finn had said she needed to find him. Clarke opened her mouth to tell Harper when she abruptly stopped. “I’ve gotta pee.” She took a sharp left and closed the bathroom door behind her.  
  
Clarke leaned her right shoulder against it and listened for dry heaves. Nope, she was definitely peeing.  
  
Pain shot down Clarke's left arm when someone ran into her and kept walking. She glanced over my shoulder. “Watch it!”  
  
A girl with long brown hair, dressed in black from head to toe and sporting a nose ring, stepped toward Clarke. She stood close enough that Clarke could count her eyelashes over her bloodshot eyes.  
  
“Get out of my way and there wouldn’t be a problem.”  
  
Okay. Clarke was a complete wuss. She’d never gotten into a fistfight in her life. Did anything to avoid people yelling at her. She would spend her nights worrying that she may have offended someone. So when this biker-looking chick stood there with her arms stretched out wide, waiting for Clarke's witty comeback or her to throw a punch, she considered puking.  
  
“Back off, Raven,” a deep, husky voice called out from behind Clarke. _Crap._ She knew that voice.  
  
Raven’s gaze settled right behind Clarke's shoulder. “She yelled at me.”  
  
“You ran into her first.” Bellamy Blake stood beside her, his biceps touching Clarke's shoulder.  
  
The corners of Raven's mouth stretched up. “You didn’t tell me you were fucking Clarke Griffin.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Clarke moaned. _Raven knows me—and she thinks I'm doing “it” with him_. The room tilted and the warm fuzzy feeling Clarke loved faded. _Happy birthday to me._  
  
“She’s my tutor.”  
  
Clarke leaned against the wall and wished everything would stop moving.  
  
“Whatever. I’ll see you outside when you’re done studying.” Raven waggled her eyebrows and walked away.  
  
Fantastic. Another rumour to worry about. Clarke needed to get away from him. Bellamy Blake meant nothing but bad news. First he made fun of Clarke. Then he saw her scars. Then he destroyed her hopes of fixing Wells’ car. Then he made people think they were doing “it.”  
  
Clarke tried the doorknob to the bathroom, hoping to join Harper in there, but it didn’t budge. Locked doors were in direct violation of the buddy system. Screw it. She pushed off the wall and stumbled to the back door. Air. She needed lots of air.  
  
She inhaled deeply the moment she stepped out onto the patio. The cold air burned Clarke's lungs and immediately nipped at the exposed skin on her neck and face. She heard laughter and voices in the darkness beyond the patio line. Probably the stoners smoking their crap.  
  
“Do you have some sort of issue with jackets?”  
  
_Come freaking on. Why couldn’t she get rid of him?_ Clarke spun around and nearly ran into Bellamy. Depth perception and beer obviously weren’t related. “Are you determined to ruin my life?” _Shut up, Clarke._ “I mean, do you have nothing else to do but destroy me?” _That’s enough. You can stop anytime now._ “Did you come to this party to tell everyone about my scars?” And Clarke officially became the after-school special on why teenagers shouldn’t drink.

Clarke stared into his eyes and waited for his response. Neither one of them moved. Dear God, Harper and Emori were right. He was hot. How could she have missed a body built like this? His unzipped jacket exposed his T-shirt, so tight Clarke could see the curve of his muscles. And those dark brown eyes …  
  
Bellamy straightened his head and coolly responded, “No.”  
  
A cold wind swept across the patio, causing Clarke to shiver. Bellamy shrugged off his black leather jacket and tossed it around her shoulders. “How are you going to tutor me if you get fucking pneumonia?” Bellamy remarked, trying not to seem as though he cared about her well-being. But in truth, that's precisely the reason Bellamy gave her his jacket. Because for some odd reason, he cared about this girl.\

Even if she was a pain in his ass.  
  
Clarke cocked an eyebrow. What an odd combination of romantic gesture and horribly crude wording. She clutched his jacket, resisting the urge to close her eyes when a sweet, musky scent surrounded her. Clarke's slow mind turned one wheel. “That’s twice you brought up tutoring.”  
  
Bellamy shoved his hands in his pockets. His hair fell into his eyes, blocking her new favourite view. “Nice to know that your mind still works when you’re fucked up.”  
  
“You use that word a lot.” Clarke swayed. Maybe she didn’t need space. She needed a wall. Clarke stumbled and leaned her back against the cold brick. A small mutinous part of her brain chanted “buddy system” over and over again. Yeah, she'd get on it—in a few.  
  
Bellamy followed and stopped less than an inch in front of Clarke. So close, the heat from his body enveloped every inch of hers.  
  
“What word?”  
  
“The f one.” _Wow_. He stood closer to Clarke than Finn had earlier. Close enough that, if he wanted to, he could kiss her.  
  
His dark eyes searched Clarke's and then moved down to inspect the rest of her body. Clarke should tell him to stop or make a sarcastic comment or at least feel degraded, but none of that happened. Not until his lips turned up.  
  
“Meet your approval?” Clarke asked sarcastically.  
  
He laughed. “Yes.” Clarke liked his deep laugh. It tickled her insides.  
  
“You’re high.” Because, to Clarke, no one in their right mind would find her attractive. Especially when that person had seen the infamous scars.  
  
“Not yet, but I’m planning on it. Want to come?”  
  
Clarke didn’t need full use of her brain for this answer. “No. I like my brain cells. I find they come in handy when I … oh, I don’t know … think.”  
  
His wicked grin made Clarke smile. And not her fake smile—her real one. These days that rarely- if ever - happened anymore. This boy was affecting her in ways she couldn't even begin to explain.  
  
“Funny.” In a lightning-fast move, he placed both of his hands on the brick wall, caging Clarke with his body. He leaned toward her and her heart shifted into a gear Clarke didn’t know existed. His warm breath caressed her neck, melting her frozen skin. Clarke tilted her head, waiting for the solid warmth of Bellamy's body on mine. She could see his eyes again and those dark orbs screamed hunger. “I heard a rumour."  
  
“What’s that?” Clarke struggled to get out.  
  
“It’s your birthday.”  
  
Terrified speaking would break the spell, Clarke licked her suddenly dry lips and nodded.  
  
“Happy birthday.” Bellamy drew his lips closer to hers; that sweet musky smell overwhelmed Clarke's senses. She could almost taste his lips when he unexpectedly took a step back, inhaling deeply. The cold air slapped her into the land of the sober.  
  
Bellamy ran a hand over his face before heading toward the tree line. “See you soon, Clarke Griffin.”  
  
“Wait.” Clarke began to pull off his jacket with the aim of giving it back. “You forgot this.”  
  
“Keep it,” Bellamy said - in his oh so hot deep voice- without looking back. “I’ll get it from you on Monday. When we discuss tutoring.”  
  
And just like that, Bellamy Blake—girl-using stoner boy and jacket-loaning saviour—faded into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things are finally starting to spice up a little! As the story progresses, I promise there will be more and more bellarke until eventually it's basically all bellarke but this will be a bit of a slow burn so bare with me! Please leave a comment if you are enjoying or if not let me know what could be better!


	4. Chapter 4

“What I don’t get is why you gave her your jacket.” Raven’s head and hair dangled off the mattress. She took a hit off the joint and passed it to Murphy.  
  
“Because she was cold.” Bellamy slouched so far back into the couch that if he relaxed any further it might open up and consume him. Bellamy chuckled. This was good shit.  
  
After his run-in with Clarke, he bought some pot, gathered Raven and Murphy from the woods behind Ontari’s house and herded them back to their foster parent's. Bellamy couldn’t depend upon either one of them to stay sober enough to drive him home, and he intended to get fucked up beyond belief.  
  
According to his social worker’s file, Murphy, another foster kid, and Bellamy slept in bedrooms upstairs. In reality, this frozen hellhole, more cement block than basement, was where the three of them lived. They took turns sleeping on the old king-size mattress and couch they'd found at Goodwill. They let Raven have the bed upstairs, but when her aunt and uncle, his foster parents, fought, which was most of the time, she shared the mattress with Murphy while Bellamy slept on the couch.  
  
Besides his sister, Murphy and Raven were the only people Bellamy considered family. He’d met them when Becca placed him at Vera and Dale’s the day after his junior year ended. Child Protective Services had placed Murphy here his freshman year. It was more like a boarding house than a home.  
  
Vera and Dale became foster parents for the money. They ignored us. We ignored them. Raven’s aunt and uncle were okay people, though they had some anger issues. At least they saved their anger for each other. Raven’s mother and boyfriend of the week, on the other hand, liked to take their anger out on Raven, so she stayed here. Becca remained unaware of this arrangement.  
  
Raven flipped so she could see me straight. “For real. Are you doing her?”  
  
“No.” But after standing so damn close to her, Bellamy couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of her warm body under his. And he wished he could blame it on the pot, but he couldn’t. Bellamy had been as sober as the day of a court-ordered drug test standing next to her on that patio. Her silky blonde hair had glimmered in the moonlight, those blue eyes looked up at Bellamy like he was some sort of answer, and, damn, she smelled like cinnamon and sugar fresh out of the oven. Bellamy rubbed his head and sighed. What was wrong with him?  
  
Ever since that day at the library, Bellamy couldn’t get Clarke Griffin out of his head. Even when he visited his sister, Bellamy thought of her and that rocking foot.  
  
She plagued Bellamy for several reasons. First, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed the tutoring. If Bellamy intended to get Octavia back, he needed to graduate high school, on time, with a job a hell of a lot better than cooking burgers. He’d missed enough class that he was behind and someone who attended class daily could help him catch up.  
  
“Here. There ain’t much left, but give it a try.” Murphy sat on the floor between the bed and the couch. He passed Bellamy the joint.  
  
Bellamy took the last hit and held the smoke until his nostrils and lungs burned. And then there were the reasons that confused his. He exhaled. “Tell me about her.”  
  
“Who?” Raven stared at the floor.  
  
“Clarke.” What crackhead names their kid Clarke? Bellamy knew her, yet he didn’t. He only pursued girls who showed an easy interest in him. But something was different about this girl. She was like a drug that he couldn't get enough of.  
  
Murphy closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch. He kept his hair buzzed close to his scalp and he had tattoos across the length of his arms. “She’s out of your league.”  
  
Raven giggled. “That’s because she turned you down flat freshman year. Murphy thought he could date up and asked a sophomore out. Little did he know Ms. Perfect had been dating King Finn for a year.”  
  
Murphy’s lips twitched. “I seem to remember Finn switching lab partners behind your back so he could sit next to her.”  
  
Raven’s eyes narrowed. “Dick.”  
  
“Focus for me. Clarke? Not your pathetic lives.” Like an old married couple, the two of them enjoyed bickering. Murphy and Raven were a year behind him, but the age difference never bothered him.

Raven sat up on the mattress. She loved to dish dirt. “So, Clarke’s sophomore year, she’s the star of the school, right? She’s on the dance team, advanced classes, honor roll, art guru, Miss Popularity, and she’s got Finn Collins feeling her up between classes. One month before school lets out—she disappears.” Ravens’s eyes widened and she spread her fingers out like a magician doing a trick.  
  
This was not where Bellamy thought this story would go. Murphy watched his reaction and nodded. “Poof.”  
  
“Gone,” added Raven.  
  
“Vanished,” said Murphy.  
  
“Lost.”  
  
“Evaporated.”  
  
“Gone,” repeated Raven. Her eyes glazed over and she stared down at her toes.  
  
“Raven,” Bellamy prodded in frustration.  
  
She blinked. “What?”  
  
“The story.” This was the problem with hanging out with stoners. “Clarke. Continue.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, so she disappeared,” said Raven.  
  
“Poof,” added Murphy.  
  
Not this again. “I got it. Disappeared, gone, poof. Moving along.”  
  
“She comes back junior year a completely different person— like Body Snatcher different. It’s still Clarke, right? She’s got blonde wavy hair and a rocking body,” said Raven.  
  
Murphy laughed. “You just called her body rocking.”  
  
Raven threw a pillow at him before continuing, “But she’s not Miss Social anymore. Finn and her are history. He moved on to some other girl. Though the rumour is she broke up with him before her disappearance. She quits the dance team, stops entering art contests and barely talks to anyone. Not that I would have talked to anyone either, the way rumours flew around about her.”  
  
“The gossip was brutal, man,” said Murphy. Raven, Murphy and Bellamy understood gossip. Foster kids and those from bad homes lay low for a reason.  
  
“What did they say?” Bellamy had a sinking feeling where this conversation was headed and it didn’t sit well with him. A sense of protectiveness for Clarke washed over him and he suddenly felt the need to shield her from all the bad things of this world. Though, it seems as though he'd been too late.   
  
Raven wrapped her arms around her knees. “On the first day of our junior year she came back wearing a long-sleeve shirt and the same thing the day after that and on and on. It was ninety degrees for the first three weeks of school. What do you think people said?”  
  
Murphy made a circling motion with his finger. “Her little friends circled the wagons and kept her out of sight.”  
  
“And she started meeting with the school counsellor.” Raven paused. “You gotta feel bad for her.”

Bellamy's eyes had been drifting closed, but Raven’s statement shocked them open. “What?” Raven lacked the sympathy gene.  
  
She lay down on the bed, her eyes fluttering. “Obviously something fucked-up happened to her. Plus, her best friend who was pretty much her brother died a couple of months before she disappeared. They were super close. He was only three years older than her and took her to parties and stuff when he was in town. I used to hate her for having an older brother who cared.” Now Raven's eyes shut completely.  
  
Murphy stood. “Roll over.”  
  
Raven rolled against the wall. Murphy grabbed a blanket off the floor and draped it over her. Their storyteller passed out.  
  
Murphy joined Bellamy on the couch. “Most people call Clarke a cutter. Some said she tried to commit suicide.” He shook his head. “It’s all messed up, man.”  
  
He was tempted to say he agreed and tell him what happened at the library, but Bellamy didn’t. “What happened to her brother?”  
  
“Wells? He was a good guy. Cool to everyone. Joined the Marines out of high school and got himself blown to hell over in Afghanistan.”  
  
Wells and Clarke. Their mothers must have hated them to give them names like that. But no matter how odd, Bellamy was really starting to grow attached to them, especially Clarke's. It was different. Beautiful. Just like her. Now he needed to find a way to make nice with the girl. She was his ticket to getting Octavia back.

* * *

Clarke held Bellamy’s black leather jacket over her arm and headed toward her locker. The temptation to wear it overwhelmed her. She loved the way it smelled, how warm it made her feel and how it reminded her of their moment together outside Onatri's house.  
  
_Get a grip, Clarke. You’re not an idiot._ She knew the gossip regarding Bellamy. He only attended parties to get high and browse the drunken female crowd for a one-night stand. And if Clarke had gone off to get high with him, she would have been yet another one-night stand of his. She wasn’t interested in a one-night stand, but it was nice to be considered. After all, since her sophomore year, no other guy at this school had showed an ounce of interest in Clarke.  
  
“What’s your problem? You look like a four-year-old who lost her balloon.” Harper joined Clarke as she walked down the hall.  
  
“I’m destined to die a virgin.” Clarke was shocked at her own admission. Had those really just words left her mouth? Clarke rubbed the smooth material of Bellamy’s jacket. Maybe she should have just gone off with him. Not to get high, but to … well- not die a virgin  
  
Harper laughed so loudly several people gawked as they walked past. Clarke lowered her head, letting her blonde strands if hair hide her face and willed everyone to look away. They reached our lockers and Clarke opened her with the hopes of crawling inside.  
  
“Hardly likely. But I thought you weren’t into hook-ups.” Harper rifled through her own locker, which was next to Clarke's.  
  
“I’m not. I held out with Finn because I wasn’t ready. I never imagined there would come a day when nobody would want me.”  
  
Clarke stared down at her gloved hands, causing seasickness to hit her on dry land. When the bell rang, she would no doubt have to take them off. This wasn’t about sex. She'd thought it was. But after taking a moment to look deeper she came to an upsetting realisation. “No guy’s going to get close enough to ever love me.”  
  
Harper closed her locker and bit her lip, unsure of what to say. She couldn't reassure Clarke that none of that was true. Because after what had happened, well- guys avoided Clarke as though she were the black death. “Your dad sucks.”  
  
Clarke inhaled deeply to keep from falling apart. “Yeah. I know.”  
  
Harper's eyes narrowed on the jacket Clarke still held. “What’s that?”  
  
“Bellamy Blake’s jacket,” Emori said, appearing out of nowhere and snatching it out of Clarke's hand, her brown hair swinging from side to side. “Follow me! Now!”  
  
Harper’s eyes widened to the size of cantaloupes and Clarke internally groaned, already knowing what was coming as they trailed Emori into the restroom. “Why do you have Bellamy Blake’s jacket?”  
  
Clarke opened her mouth to answer, but Lexa slammed the door to the bathroom shut. “We don’t have time for small talk. He’s coming.”  
  
Emori used one finger to push each stall door open to confirm they were alone. The place smelled of disinfectant and a sink dripped every couple of seconds.  
  
“Stop it,” Lexa ordered, knowing they were limited on time. “I already checked.”  
  
Harper grabbed Lexa’s hand. “Whoa. I need answers. Who’s coming? Why does Clarke have Bellamy’s jacket and where did you get that sweater?”  
  
“Finn. For Clarke. You were so drunk at the party that you messed with the buddy system and now Clarke has Bellamy’s jacket. She can’t be seen with it.” Lexa jerked it out of Emori's hand. “We are getting Clarke’s life back.”  
  
Clarke pried the jacket from Lexa’s fingers. Her friends had officially lost their minds. “It’s a jacket, not crack. He’s in my first period class. I’ll give it to him then. And who cares that Finn is looking for me?”  
  
Lexa pointed a red fingernail at me. “You held out. Luke asked you to dance at the party and instead of dancing with him we had to take Harper home. Now he’s looking for you to find out why you stood him up. This is the answer to all of our prayers.”  
  
Clarke clutched the jacket closer seeking comfort and for some strange reason the jacket provided just that. She silently thanked Bellamy Blake. “What? I mean, so? Finn and I are friends.” Clarke explained. He’d wished her a happy birthday. Friends do that.  
  
Harper started her annoying bouncing dance. “So? Dancing with you at a party is way past friendship. It means he’s into you again.”  
  
“Exactly,” said Lexa. “If Finn’s into you then everyone else will be into you, too.”  
  
Harper waved her hands in the air. “More importantly, you are not going to die a virgin.” She sucked in a dramatic breath. “Finn cannot see you with another guy’s jacket. Lexa, take the jacket to your locker and we’ll figure out a plan later.”  
  
Lexa raised an eyebrow at the request that sounded more like an order. “No way. I’m sure that thing reeks of drugs. What if they bring drug-sniffing dogs to school?”  
  
“Oh, my God, you are worthless,” Harper said, tossing some of Clarke's hair over her shoulder while Lexa straightened her shirt. “Go on, get out there before he misses you and heads to class.”

Harper and Emori pulled Clarke out the door and she clutched Bellamy’s jacket even closer to her as she felt the anxiety creep upon her. “You guys are way over-analysing this,” Clarke said as Harper speed dialled the combination to her locker.  
  
“He’s coming,” Emori sang.  
  
Harper plucked the jacket from her hands, her source of comfort now gone, and threw it in Clarke's locker, pushed her out of the way and slammed it shut. Harper and Emori leaned against the locker, adding a second layer of security.  
  
“Hey, Clarke.”  
  
Clarke turned and faced Finn. “Hey.” So much had happened in the past three minutes, her mind became a tilt-a-whirl.  
  
Finn’s eyes flickered over Emori and Harper. His eyebrows inched closer together. Clarke remembered that look: he had something he wanted to say without an audience. But if Finn remembered nothing else about her, he’d recall Clarke was a package deal.  
  
“I waited for you,” he said.  
  
“It’s my fault,” Harper blurted. “She didn’t have time to dance with you because I wanted to go home. I drank too much.”  
  
Both Finn and Clarke stared at her and then at each other. One Mississippi of awkward silence. Two Mississippi of awkward silence. Three Mississippi of awkward silence.  
  
“Can I walk you to class, Clarke?” he finally asked.  
  
“Sure.” Clarke hesitantly accepted, glancing at Harper and Emori over her shoulder as she accompanied Finn down the hallway. Both flashed quick thumbs-ups. Clarke sucked in a deep breath and put on her perfected fake smile - unlike her real one from the other night with Bellamy - when she noticed Finn grinning at her. Wow—normal. Maybe it really was possible.  
  
That is, if normal meant hiding Bellamy Blake’s jacket in her locker … and pretending that she wasn’t thinking about how close he’d come to kissing her.

* * *

“Hold this.” Ms Diyoza shoved a steaming to-go cup at Bellamy and went back to her war with the school’s locked doors. They could barely see in the pale morning light, making it hard for her to find the right key on the overloaded chain. Bellamy had considered giving her crap about her lack of organisational skills, but decided not to. It took some major balls to be alone with a punk like him.  
  
The warmth of the coffee reminded Bellamy how cold it was outside. Goose bumps pricked his exposed arms. He owned one long-sleeved shirt and only wore that for when he saw Octavia. Being jacket-less sucked. But for Clarke Griffin, it was worth it. Sort of.

Ms Diyoza's eyes settled on the tattoo on Bellamy's biceps and her forever smile fell a centimetre. “Where’s your jacket, Bellamy? It’s cold.”  
  
“I gave it to someone.” _Someone who's been on my mind ever since._  
  
A relieved sigh escaped her mouth when the third key she tried unlocked the door. She waved for Bellamy to go in. Instead, he held the door and nodded for her to go first, probably surprising her in the process. It wasn't everyday Bellamy showed his true colours. He much rather preferred that everyone think of him a just some stoner foster kid. No one would get close that way. 

Less of a chance of being hurt.

Their footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. Thanks to the school’s new green policy, the lights flashed on as we approached. It put Bellamy on edge. On top of the system that stalked his every movement, now the building did, too.  
  
“Who did you give your jacket to?” Ms Diyoza entered the main office and unlocked her office door on the first try.

“A girl.” _A girl who’d ignored me all day Monday and had yet to return said jacket._  
  
“A girlfriend or a friend that’s a girl?”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
Ms Diyoza gave him the pity look then busied herself with her purse. “Do you need a coat?”  
  
Bellamy absolutely hated the pity look. He loathed it. After his parents died, everyone he knew wore that look. Eyes slightly rounded. The ends of their mouths curved up slightly while their lips pulled down. The entire time they fought to look normal, but they only came across as uncomfortable.  
  
“No. I’m getting it back today.”  
  
“Good.” She flipped open my file. “How are your tutoring sessions with Clarke?”  
  
“We’re starting today.” Only Clarke didn’t exactly know that yet.  
  
“Glorious.” She opened her mouth to ask another asinine question, but Bellamy had his own.  
  
“What do you know about my sister?”  
  
She picked up a pen and tapped it against the desk, keeping time with the second hand on the clock. “Becca and I had a chat regarding your visit this weekend. What happened to Octavia was an accident.”  
  
_What the hell?_ “You’re a school counsellor. What are you doing talking to my social worker? And what are you doing talking to her about Octavia?”  
  
“I already told you. I’m a clinical social worker, and I’m the guinea pig for the pilot program. My job isn’t to handle a part of you, but to handle all of you. That means I have access to your sister. I’ll be communicating with their foster parents and sometimes I’ll be talking to Octavia as well.  
  
“As for where I fit in here at Arkadia, Mrs Woods handles the typical guidance counsellor issues and I handle …” She bobbed her head. “The more enlightening students. School fills your mind with knowledge, but we tend to ignore the emotional. I’m here to see what happens if we pay attention to both.”  
  
_Yay for me._ Bellamy thought bitterly. Having Becca up his ass was bad enough. Now he had Sally Sunshine in his business, too. Bellamy ran his hand over his face and shifted in his chair.  
  
Ms Diyoza continued, “Becca also told me that you’re threatening to petition for custody of your sister after you graduate. If that’s true, Bellamy, you’ve got some major changes you need to make in your life. Are you willing to make them?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Did she just challenge him to get his shit together so he could get his family back?  
  
She put the pen down and leaned forward. “Are you willing to make the changes necessary to possibly care for your sister after graduation?”  
  
Fuck, yeah. Hell, yes. “Yes, ma’am.”  
  
Ms Diyoza picked her pen back up and wrote in his file. “Then you’re going to have to prove it to me. I know you have no reason to trust me, but this process will go faster and smoother if you can find a way to do it. You need to focus on yourself right now and trust Becca and me to see to the welfare of your sister.  
  
“The reality of the situation is this. If you continue to harass Becca about visitation and if you continue to pump Octavia for information on her foster parents, specifically their last name, then you are making it appear as if you aren’t willing to play by the rules. The visitation you have now is a privilege, Bellamy. A privilege I want to see you keep. Do we have an understanding?”  
  
The chair jerked beneath Bellamy as he pointed at her. “That is _my_ sister.”

The lack of information about who had his sister— her foster parents’ last name, their address, their phone number … the fact that he couldn’t see Octavia whenever he wanted … he lost all of those “privileges” the day he hit his first foster father. Bellamy's throat swelled and his eyes stung. The realisation that he was on the verge of tears pissed him off. Bellamy stood, unsure what to do … or who to blame. So, he went with the easiest option. “You have no right. She's my responsibility.”  
  
Ms Diyoza stared at Bellamy straight-faced. “She's safe. You need to believe me on this. You’re putting your experiences on your sister. I understand your need to protect her, but right now it isn’t necessary. If you want to see her on a regular basis then you need to learn to work with me, and I’ve explained how you can do that.”  
  
“Go to hell.” Bellamy grabbed his books and left her office.

* * *

Ms Diyoza's plaques had moved by a fraction of an inch, revealing black marks on the wall. For once, Clarke found herself wishing for Marcus’s attendance. The imperfection would have driven him insane.  
  
Just like last week, the blue ribbon sat on Ms Diyoza's desk and just like last week, the placement of the ribbon changed— each time closer to Clarke's seat. It was as if the ribbon contained a force field that enveloped her—a pull she couldn’t explain.  
  
“How are things with your boyfriend?” asked Ms Diyoza. Another Tuesday afternoon, another therapy session.  
  
Clarke drew her eyes away from the ribbon. Thank God Finn had asked her out on a group date for Saturday night. One less lie for her to tell. “My mother misunderstood. I don’t have a boyfriend, but I am dating somebody.” Kind of. Sort of. If one date was considered dating.  
  
Her eyes brightened. “Wonderful. Is it that basketball player I’ve seen hanging around with you in the hall?”  
  
“Yes.” Great, a stalking therapist. Was that even legal?  
  
“Tell me about him.”  
  
Um … no. “I don’t want to talk about Finn.”  
  
“All right,” she said, totally unruffled. “Let’s talk about Bellamy. He told me today is your first tutoring session.”  
  
Clarke blinked several times in succession. Crap. Was it? Maybe she should have just discussed Finn. She still had Bellamy’s jacket in her locker since she'd let Harper and Lexa convince her that she couldn’t simply hand it to him during school. They were still devising a plan to get it back to him. “Yes. Yes, it is.”  
  
“Would you like some unsolicited advice?”  
  
Clarke shrugged and yawned simultaneously, preparing for the just-say-no-to-drugs-sex-and-alcohol lecture. After all, in theory, she was tutoring Bellamy Blake. “Sure.”  
  
But Ms Diyoza surprised her. “Bellamy is more than capable of doing the work. He just needs a small push. Don’t let him fool you into thinking otherwise. And you, Clarke, are the one person at this school I believe can challenge him academically.”  
  
That was a totally strange pep talk. “Okay.” Clarke covered her mouth as she yawned again.  
  
“You look tired. How are you sleeping?” No response. Clarke was off in her own world, almost half asleep. **  
**

“Clarke, are you okay? You look pale.”  
  
“I’m fine.” If she kept saying it then maybe it would come true. And maybe, someday, she could sleep a full night without horrible dreams—strange dreams, scary dreams, full of constellations, darkness, broken glass and, sometimes, blood.  
  
“Your mother mentioned that you don’t take your prescribed sleeping pills even though you still have night terrors.”  
  
Nightly. Scary enough that Clarke didn’t want to fall asleep. Frightening enough that if she lost the battle and did sleep, Clarke woke up screaming. Her mother and Marcus kept the pills in a locked cabinet in their bathroom and only gave them to Clarke if she asked. She’d rather have poked her eye out with a bleach-laced needle than ask Marcus and her mother for anything. “I said I’m fine.”  
  
With the word fine, Clarke's eyes shot back to the ribbon. What was it about that thing that attracted her to it? She felt like a moth flying toward an electric bug zapper.  
  
“You appear very interested in the ribbon, Clarke,” Ms Diyoza observed. “You’re more than welcome to hold it if you’d like.”  
  
“No, I’m good,” Clarke replied. But she wasn’t good. Her fingers twitched in her lap. For some insane reason, she did in fact want to hold it. Ms Diyoza said nothing and the silence sort of creeped her out.  
  
Clarke's heart stuttered as she finally gave in to the urge, shifting forward and taking the ribbon in her hand.  
  
This wasn’t one of those cheesy blue ribbons. This was the real deal—large and made of silk. Clarke rubbed the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. First in Show: Painting—Arkadia's Governor’s Cup.  
  
Someone at her school won the Governor’s Cup. How freaking cool was that? Every high school artist dreamed of winning that competition.  
  
Maybe some lowerclassman had remarkable art talent. Screw her mother—the moment Ms Diyoza released her, Clarke planned on checking out the art room and seeing this talent for herself. To win first place in the Governor’s Cup, you had to be a stinking genius.  
  
As Clarke ran her fingers over the ribbon again, applause echoed in her head. A still frame image of her own outstretched arm accepting the ribbon sprang into Clarke's mind.  
  
Her eyes snapped to Ms Diyoza's as her heart thundered in her chest, coming to a realisation. “This is mine.”  
  
The thundering moved to her head and her chest constricted as another image squeezed out. In Clarke's mind, she was accepting not only the ribbon, but a certificate. She didn’t see the name printed there, but she saw the date. It was _the_ date.  
  
Jolts of electricity shot up Clarke's arms and straight to her heart. Horrified, she threw the ribbon across the room as if it had burnt her and bolted from the chair. Her knee slammed against the desk, causing needle-sharp pains to shoot behind her kneecap. Clarke fell to the floor and scrambled backward, away from the ribbon, until her back smacked the door.  
  
Ms Diyoza pushed slowly away from her desk, crossed the room to retrieve the ribbon, and held it in her hand. “Yes, it’s yours, Clarke.” She spoke like they were sharing a pizza instead of Clarke having a panic attack.  
  
“It’s-It … can’t be. I- I never won the Governor’s Cup.” Fog filled a portion of Clarke's mind, followed by a bright flash of red. A moment of clarity revealed a younger Clarke filling out a form. “But I entered … my sophomore year. I won the county, then regionals, and moved on to state. And then … then …” Nothing. The black hole swallowed the red and the grey. Only darkness remained.  
  
Ms Diyoza smoothed her black skirt as she sat down in front of Clarke. Maybe no one told her, but sitting on the floor during a therapy session was abnormal. She reined in her Labrador enthusiasm and spoke in a calm, reassuring tone. “You’re in a safe place, Clarke, and it is safe to remember.” She stroked the ribbon. “You had a very happy morning that day.” _Too bad it hadn't ended that way._  
  
Clarke cocked her head to the side and squinted at the ribbon. “I … won?”  
  
She nodded. “I’m a huge art fan. I prefer statues over paintings, but I still love paintings. I’d rather go to a gallery than a movie any day of the week.”  
  
This lady was a feather-filled quack. No question about it. Yet in the middle of those annoyingly cheerful plaques hung honest-to-God legitimate degrees. The University of Louisville was a real school and so was Harvard, where she’d apparently continued her studies. Clarke focused on breathing. “I don’t remember winning.”  
  
Ms Diyoza sighed, placing the ribbon on the edge of her desk. “That’s because you repressed the entire day, not just the night.”  
  
Clarke stared at the file on her desk. Everything she's wanted to know since that day was in that file. It was just in her reach. So close yet so far. “Will you tell me what happened to me?”  
  
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that would be cheating. If you want to remember, then you need to start applying yourself during these sessions. That means you answer my questions honestly. No more lying. No more half lies. Even if your parents are here. In fact, especially if your parents are here.”

Clarke reached up to where Wells’ dog tags would have rested around her neck if she had worn them. Her eyes never left her file. “Did you bother reading that thing?”  
  
One finger methodically rubbed Ms Diyoza's jaw. “Of course.” She spoke as if Clarke had asked an absurd question.  
  
She bit the inside of her mouth. “Then you know. I tried to remember once and you know it isn’t possible.” Not without Clarke's mind fracturing in two. The summer after the incident, one psychologist tried to open the steel door in her brain and demons raced out from the crack. She lost herself for two days and woke in the hospital. Clarke's nightmares from then on escalated into night terrors.  
  
“You want the truth?” Clarke asked asked. “You’re right. I want so badly to know what happened. To prove I’m not - to know - because sometimes I wonder... if I’m crazy like him.”  
  
In the dark recess of her mind, Clarke could hear her mother yelling at her to shut up, but the dam had burst open on her fears. “Because I’m like him, you know? We look the same, we’re both artists, and people always say that I have his spirit. I’m proud to be like him. Because he’s my dad, but I don’t want...” To be crazy.  
  
Ms Diyoza placed a hand over her heart. “Clarke. No. You’re not bipolar.”  
  
But why tempt fate? She’d tried once. Wasn’t that enough? Ms Diyoza didn’t understand. How could she? “If you tell me, I’ll know. I think my mind cracked because that therapist tried to make me relive it. Maybe the memories are too horrible. Maybe if you tell me, you know, just the facts, then the black hole in my brain will be filled, the nightmares will go away and I won’t lose my mind in the process.” Clarke stared straight into her kind eyes, her own eyes showing vulnerability. “Please.”

Ms Diyoza's lips turned down. “I could read you the account from the police, your father, your stepmother and even your mother, but it won’t take the nightmares away. You’re the only person who can do that, but that means you need to stop running from the problem and face it head-on. Talk to me about your family, Wells, school, and yes, your father.”  
  
Clarke's mouth hung open to speak, but then she snapped it shut, only to attempt to speak again. “I don’t want to lose my mind.” The admission came as quiet whisper that Clarke wasn't sure if Ms Diyoza had heard her.  
  
“You won’t, Clarke. We’ll take it slow. You run the race and I’ll set the speed. I can help you, but you’ll have to trust me and you’ll have to work hard.”  
  
Trust. Why not ask her to do something easier, like prove the existence of God? Even God had given up on me. “I’ve already lost a piece of my mind. I can’t trust you with what’s left.”

* * *

After school, Bellamy spotted Clarke weaving through the crowded hallway. She swung into the main office seconds before he caught up to her. Tuesday was Bellamy's only night off and he’d planned on shooting hoops with Murphy. Bellamy slammed his fist into the locker beside him in anger and frustration at this girl. Now he had to wait for some stuck-up head case to be done with her therapy appointment.  
  
Bellamy wandered the halls before settling across from Clarke’s locker. She hadn’t had her backpack or coat with her, so he figured she’d have to come get them before she left for the day. Forty mind-numbing minutes later, Bellamy was questioning his decision. Clarke had coat issues. Waiting by her car would have been smarter.  
  
Heels clicking against the linoleum floor signalled her approach. Clarke’s blonde waves bounced with each step. Clutching her books tight to her chest, she kept her head down. Every muscle in Bellamy's body clenched when she walked past. He’d tolerated her ignoring him during school, but to flat-out diss him in an empty hallway was beyond cold. With her back to me, she tried the combination on her lock. The metal locker lurched open.  
  
“You are the rudest damn person I have ever met.” Bellamy shoved off the ground. Screw her, Ms Diyoza and tutoring. H’d find a way to bring himself to speed. “Give me my damn jacket.”  
  
Clarke spun around and for a second, pure pain slashed her face, but then another storm brewed in her eyes. A storm that required hurricane warnings and evacuations. “No wonder you need tutoring. You have the worst vocabulary of anyone I know. Have you ever even bothered learning anything beyond four-letter words?”  
  
“I’ve got another four-letter word for you. Fuck you. You got back with your boyfriend and couldn’t stomach giving me my stuff in front of other people.”  
  
“You don’t know anything.”  
  
“I know crazy when I see it.” The moment the words flew out of his mouth Bellamy regretted them. Sometimes when you see the line, you think it’s a good idea to cross it—until you do.  
  
For the second time since meeting her, Clarke looked as if Bellamy had slapped her. Water pooled at the bottom edges of her eyes, her cheeks flushed red and she blinked rapidly. She’d succeeded in making Bellamy feel like a dick... again.  
  
She reached into her locker and flung his jacket at him. “You are such a jerk!” She slammed shut her locker and stalked off.  
  
Dammit. Just dammit. “Clarke!” Bellamy ran after her. He knew he'd upset her. The thought that he'd been the one to cause her any pain sent a pang to his heart. “Clarke, wait.”  
  
But she didn’t. Bellamy caught up to her, grabbing her arm and turning her toward him. Dammit all to hell, tears poured down her beautiful face. Dammit Bellamy, focus. What was he supposed to do now?  
  
She sniffed. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me. I didn’t see you.” She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “I should have given you your jacket back yesterday, but …” Her slender white neck moved as she swallowed. “But I wanted normal and for a few minutes that’s what I was. Like two years ago... like before...” And she trailed off.  
  
If Bellamy had the thinnest chance at normal again, he would have burned the damn jacket. He was sure she wanted her brother back as much as he wanted his sister back. To have a home again, and parents, and dammit. Normal. Bellamy understood it all too well.  
  
He took a deep, pride-eating breath. In the wise words of Murphy- poof. Bellamy's muscles relaxed and his anger disappeared. Lowering her head, Clarke withdrew into her hair. Internally groaning, Bellamy wondered why this girl had suddenly made him grow a conscience. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”  
  
She revealed her pale face and sniffed again. One blonde curl clung to her tear-stained cheek. Bellamy's hand reached out to release it, but he hesitated a mere heartbeat away from her skin. Bellamy swears Clarke quit breathing and even blinking, and for a second so did he. In a deliberate movement, Bellamy freed the curl.  
  
Clarke exhaled a shaky breath and licked her lips when Bellamy lowered his hand. “Thanks.”  
  
For the apology or the curl, Bellamy had no idea and wasn’t going to ask. His heart pounded in tune with thrash metal. They’d read about princess's in English this fall; Greek mythology bullshit about women so beautiful, their voices so enchanting, that men did anything for them. Turned out that mythology crap was real because every time Bellamy saw her, he lost his mind.  
  
Normal. Clarke wanted normal and so did Bellamy. “You know what’s normal?”  
  
“What?” She wiped away her remaining tears, causing Bellamy to wince at the reminder that he'd caused them. _Never again_ , he promised himself.  
  
“Calculus.” Bellamy joked in an attempt to cheer her up.  
  
And it worked. No doubt, Clarke Griffin equalled a princess. She gave Bellamy the same - real - smile he'd seen on Saturday night. That type of smile caused men to write those stupid-ass songs that he and Murphy made fun of. Bellamy would sit in Ms Diyoza's office for hours and wake his ass up early to go to calculus in order to see that smile again. This was fucked up.  
  
“All right,” Clarke agreed, that smile never leaving her face. “Let’s do normal.”  
  
And they did. For an hour, they sat against the lockers and Clarke caught Bellamy up on a few lessons. Clarke used her hands to describe things, which was pretty damn hilarious to Bellamy since they were discussing maths. Her blue eyes shone when Bellamy asked questions and she gave him that princess smile each time he clued in. That smile only made Bellamy want to learn more.

Anything for her smile. And he meant it.  
  
Clarke took a deep breath after finishing her explanation of a derivative. Bellamy had understood a derivative five minutes ago, but he loved the sound of her sweet voice. Part angel, part music.  
  
“You know a lot about maths,” Bellamy commented. You know a lot about maths? What type of statement was that? Right along of the lines of “Hey, you have hair and it’s blonde and wavy.” Real smooth.  
  
“My brother, Wells, was the maths genius of the family. The only reason I can keep up is because he tutored me. He never turned in his calculus book, knowing I’d need all the help I could get.” Handling it with the same reverence Bellamy's mother had carried the family Bible, Clarke pulled out an old, tattered maths text book from her backpack and began turning pages. The book contained copious notes written in blue or black ink in the margins. “Guess that makes me a cheater, huh?”  
  
“No, it means you have a brother who cared.” Was his sister's foster mum helping her with her homework, or was she like his first foster dad’s wife? Locking herself in the bedroom, she’d pretended none of her foster kids existed and that he didn’t beat them.  
  
Clarke stroked the handwritten words on the page. “I miss him. He died two years ago in Afghanistan.” She clutched the book like it was a life raft. “IED.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Bellamy had said that phrase more to her today than he had said it over the past two and a half years. “About your brother.”  
  
“Thanks,” she said in a lifeless voice.  
  
“It doesn’t get better,” Bellamy revealed. It was better she know. “The pain. The wounds scab over and you don’t always feel like a knife is slashing through you. But when you least expect it, the pain flashes to remind you you’ll never be the same.”  
  
Why Bellamy was telling her this, he didn’t know. Maybe because she was the first person Bellamy had met since his parents died who could understand. He stared at the pulsating fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling. On. Off. On. Off. Bellamy wished he could find his pain’s off switch.  
  
A warm, tickling touch crashed Bellamy back to earth. Or maybe it sent him straight to heaven. Either way, it dragged him out of hell. Clarke’s fingernails caressed the back of his hand. “Who did you lose?”  
  
“My parents.” No pathetic sympathy crossed her face, only plain understanding. “Think Ms Diyoza put the two most depressed people together on purpose?” Bellamy flashed a smile to keep the honesty of the statement from corroding the remainder of his heart.  
  
Clarke's hand retreated. “Wow. I thought I was the only person at this school faking every moment.”  
  
Craving more of her touch, Bellamy shifted on the floor so his arm touched her shoulder. Clarke’s lips never moved, but his princess sang nonetheless. Her song seared Bellamy's skin and his nose burned from her sugar and cinnamon scent.  
  
Her back pocket vibrated, flinging Bellamy back to hell... sorry— high school. He needed one of Raven’s cigarettes and Bellamy didn’t even smoke.  
  
Clarke skimmed a text message on her phone. Probably that lucky son-of-a-bitch ape boyfriend. Any trace of the princess smile Bellamy had worked so hard to put on her face faded. That in itself was a fucking tragedy.  
  
“You okay?” Bellamy asked in sincere concern.  
  
“Yeah. My stepfather stalking my every move,” Clarke said with forced lightness.  
  
Bellamy took a relieved breath. Better her stepfather than the ape. “At least you’ve got someone who cares.” He highly doubted Vera or Dale knew he even owned a phone. “I am sorry for making you cry earlier. I promise I’ll play nice in the future.”  
  
“Does this mean that I’m actually tutoring you now?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess it does.”

Clarke pulled her sleeves over her hands. “You didn’t make me cry. You didn’t help, but you didn’t make me cry.”  
  
Clarke had exposed her hands while she tutored Bellamy—when she touched him. Shit. He'd forgotten about her scars. Hell, she’d forgotten about her scars—until now. Bellamy wanted that moment back, and to see her smile again. “Then who did? It’s been a while since I’ve been in a fight. My rep will be ruined if I’m good for too long.”  
  
She fought it, but eventually Bellamy won. The smile returned for a brief dazzling moment. “You’d be expelled if you got into a fight with Ms Diyoza. So thanks, but no, thanks.”  
  
Bellamy hit the back of his head against the locker. “She fucked with me today, too. Must be a third date thing.” He chuckled when Clarke looked at him like he’d tattooed his forehead.  
  
“Third date thing meaning what?”  
  
Did Clarke live in a box? “After the third date, people generally have sex. Today was my third session and Mrs. Collins royally screwed me over. And by the looks of it, she did a number on you, too.”  
  
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed as Clarke ran through what he'd said. Bellamy loved how her lips twitched in humour and a blush touched her cheeks.  
  
“You know what sucks?” Clarke asked.  
  
“Ms Diyoza?”  
  
“Yes, but that’s not what I meant. Everything I need to know is in that freaking file she keeps on me. It’s like the key to the magic door that opens the magic kingdom.” Clarke kicked her backpack across the hall. “I could finally find some real peace if I could get my hands on that stupid, stupid folder.”  
  
As she spoke, Bellamy's mind whirled like a tornado. Ms Diyoza was in touch with Octavia's foster parents, which meant she had their information: their last names, their phone number, their address. Clarke was right. Those files were a gold mine. If he got his hands on his folder, Bellamy could check on his sister. He could prove she was in an abusive home and gain custody. “You, Clarke Griffin, are a genius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! As always please leave a comment behind if you enjoyed or feedback on what to do better if you didn't!


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